University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 

MR.   E.   W.   NASH 


THE    BOSTONIANS 


THE 


BOSTONIANS 


3-  #<rbtl 


BY 

HENRY   JAMES 


anli  $leto  gorfc 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 
1886 


COPYRIGHT 

1886 
BY   HENRY  JAMES 


BOOK   FIRST. 


B 


THE    BOSTONIANS. 


1  OLIVE  will  come  down  in  about  ten  minutes  j  she  told  me 
to  tell  you  that  About  ten ;  that  is  exactly  like  Olive. 
Neither  five  nor  fifteen,  and  yet  not  ten  exactly,  but  either 
nine  or  eleven.  She  didn't  tell  me  to  say  she  was  glad  to 
see  you,  because  she  doesn't  know  whether  she  is  or  not, 
and  she  wouldn't  for  the  world  expose  herself  to  telling  a 
fib.  She  is  very  honest,  is  Olive  Chancellor ;  she  is  full  of 
rectitude.  Nobody  tells  fibs  in  Boston;  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  them  all.  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you,  at  any  rate.' 

These  words  were  spoken  with  much  volubility  by  a  fair, 
plump,  smiling  woman  who  entered  a  narrow  drawing-room  in 
which  a  visitor,  kept  waiting  for  a  few  moments,  was  already 
absorbed  in  a  book.  The  gentleman  had  not  even  needed 
to  sit  down  to  become  interested :  apparently  he  had  taken 
up  the  volume  from  a  table  as  soon  as  he  came  in,  and, 
standing  there,  after  a  single  glance  round  the  apartment, 
had  lost  himself  in  its  pages.  He  threw  it  down  at  the 
approach  of  Mrs.  Luna,  laughed,  shook  hands  with  her,  and 
said  in  answer  to  her  last  remark,  '  You  imply  that  you  do 
tell  fibs.  Perhaps  that  is  one.' 

1  Oh  no ;  there  is  nothing  wonderful  in  my  being  glad 
to  see  you,'  Mrs.  Luna  rejoined,  '  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
have  been  three  long  weeks  in  this  unprevaricating  city.' 

'  That  has  an  unflattering  sound  for  me,'  said  the  young 
man.  '  I  pretend  not  to  prevaricate.' 

'  Dear  me,  what's  the  good  of  being  a  Southerner  ? '  the 
lady  asked.  c  Olive  told  me  to  tell  you  she  hoped  you  will 


THE  BOSTONIANS. 


stay  to  dinner.  And  if  she  said  it,  she  does  really  hope  it. 
She  is  willing  to  risk  that.' 

'  Just  as  I  am  ? '  the  visitor  inquired,  presenting  himself 
with  rather  a  wprk-a-day  aspect. 

Mrs.  Luna  glanced  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  gave 
a  little  smiling  sigh,  as  if  he  had  been  a  long  sum  in 
addition.  And,  indeed,  he  was  very  long,  Basil  Ransom, 
and  he  even  looked  a  little  hard  and  discouraging,  like  a 
column  of  figures,  in  spite  of  the  friendly  face  which  he 
bent  upon  his  hostess's  deputy,  and  which,  in  its  thinness, 
had  a  deep  dry  line,  a  sort  of  premature  wrinkle,  on  either 
side  of  the  mouth.  He  was  tall  and  lean,  and  dressed 
throughout  in  black ;  his  shirt-collar  was  low  and  wide,  and 
the  triangle  of  linen,  a  little  crumpled,  exhibited  by  the 
opening  of  his  waistcoat,  was  adorned  by  a  pin  containing 
a  small  red  stone.  In  spite  of  this  decoration  the  young 
man  looked  poor — as  poor  as  a  young  man  could  look  who 
had  such  a  fine  head  and  such  magnificent  eyes.  Those  of 
Basil  Ransom  were  dark,  deep,  and  glowing ;  his  head  had  a 
character  of  elevation  which  fairly  added  to  his  stature ;  it 
was  a  head  to  be  seen  above  the  level  of  a  crowd,  on  some 
judicial  bench  or  political  platform,  or  even  on  a  bronze 
medal.  His  forehead  was  high  and  broad,  and  his  thick 
black  hair,  perfectly  straight  and  glossy,  and  without 
any  division,  rolled  back  from  it  in  a  leonine  manner. 
These  things,  the  eyes  especially,  with  their  smouldering 
fire,  might  have  indicated  that  he  was  to  be  a  great 
American  statesman;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  they  might 
simply  have  proved  that  he  came  from  Carolina  or  Alabama. 
He  came,  in  fact,  from  Mississippi,  and  he  spoke  very 
perceptibly  with  the  accent  of  that  country.  It  is  not  in 
my  power  to  reproduce  by  any  combination  of  characters 
this  charming  dialect ;  but  the  initiated  reader  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  evoking  the  sound,  which  is  to  be  associated  in 
the  present  instance  with  nothing  vulgar  or  vain.  This  lean, 
pale,  sallow,  shabby,  striking  young  man,  with  his  superior 
head,  his  sedentary  shoulders,  his  expression  of  bright 
grimness  and  hard  enthusiasm,  his  provincial,  distinguished 
appearance,  is,  as  a  representative  of  his  sex,  the  most  im- 
portant personage  in  my  narrative ;  he  played  a  very  active 


THE  BOSTONIANS. 


part  in  the  events  I  have  undertaken  in  some  degree  to  set 
forth.  And  yet  the  reader  who  likes  a  complete  image,  who 
desires  to  read  with  the  senses  as  well  as  with  the  reason,  is 
entreated  not  to  forget  that  he  prolonged  his  consonants 
and  swallowed  his  vowels,  that  he  was  guilty  of  elisions  and 
interpolations  which  were  equally  unexpected,  and  that  his 
discourse  was  pervaded  by  something  sultry  and  vast,  some- 
thing almost  African  in  its  rich,  basking  tone,  something 
that  suggested  the  teeming  expanse  of  the  cotton-field. 
Mrs.  Luna  looked  up  at  all  this,  but  saw  only  a  part  of  it ; 
otherwise  she  would  not  have  replied  in  a  bantering  manner, 
in  answer  to  his  inquiry:  'Are  you  ever  different  from 
this  ? '  Mrs.  Luna  was  familiar — intolerably  familiar. 

Basil  Ransom  coloured  a  little.  Then  he  said  :  '  Oh 
yes ;  when  I  dine  out  I  usually  carry  a  six-shooter  and  a 
bowie-knife.'  And  he  took  up  his  hat  vaguely — a  soft 
black  hat  with  a  low  crown  and  an  immense  straight  brim. 
Mrs.  Luna  wanted  to  know  what  he  was  doing.  She  made 
him  sit  down;  she  assured  him  that  her  sister  quite 
expected  him,  would  feel  as  sorry  as  she  could  ever  feel  for 
anything — for  she  was  a  kind  of  fatalist,  anyhow — if  he 
didn't  stay  to  dinner.  It  was  an  immense  pity — she  herself 
was  going  out;  in  Boston  you  must  jump  at  invitations. 
Olive,  too,  was  going  somewhere  after  dinner,  but  he 
mustn't  mind  that ;  perhaps  he  would  like  to  go  with  her. 
It  wasn't  a  party — Olive  didn't  go  to  parties ;  it  was  one  of 
those  weird  meetings  she  was  so  fond  of. 

'  What  kind  of  meetings  do  you  refer  to  ?  You  speak 
as  if  it  were  a  rendezvous  of  witches  on  the  Brocken.' 

'Well,  so  it  is;  they  are  all  witches  and  wizards, 
mediums,  and  spirit-rappers,  and  roaring  radicals/ 

Basil  Ransom  stared ;  the  yellow  light  in  his  brown  eyes 
deepened.  '  Do  you  mean  to  say  your  sister's  a  roaring 
radical  ? ' 

'A  radical?  She's  a  female  Jacobin — she's  a  nihilist. 
Whatever  is,  is  wrong,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  If  you 
are  going  to  dine  with  her,  you  had  better  know  it.' 

'  Oh,  murder  ! '  murmured  v  the  young  man  vaguely, 
sinking  back  in  his  chair  with  his  arms  folded.  He  looked 
at  Mrs.  Luna  with  intelligent  incredulity.  She  was 


THE  BOSTONIANS. 


sufficiently  pretty;  her  hair  was  in  clusters  of  curls,  like 
bunches  of  grapes ;  her  tight-  bodice  seemed  to  crack  with 
her  vivacity ;  and  from  beneath  the  stiff  little  plaits  of  her 
petticoat  a  small  fat  foot  protruded,  resting  upon  a  stilted 
heel.  She  was  attractive  and  impertinent,  especially  the 
latter.  He  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  great  pity,  what  she 
had  told  him  ;  but  he  lost  himself  in  this  consideration,  or, 
at  any  rate,  said  nothing  for  some  time,  while  his  eyes 
wandered  over  Mrs.  Luna,  and  he  probably  wondered 
what  body  of  doctrine  she  represented,  little  as  she  might 
partake  of  the  nature  of  her  sister.  Many  things  were 
strange  to  Basil  Ransom;  Boston  especially  was  strewn 
with  surprises,  and  he  was  a  man  who  liked  to  understand. 
Mrs.  Luna  was  drawing  on  her  gloves ;  Ransom  had  never 
seen  any  that  were  so  long ;  they  reminded  him  of  stockings, 
and  he  wondered  how  she  managed  without  garters  above 
the  elbow.  '  Well,  I  suppose  I  might  have  known  that,' 
he  continued,  at  last. 

'  You  might  have  known  what  ? ' 

'  Well,  that  Miss  Chancellor  would  be  all  that  you  say. 
She  was  brought  up  in  the  city  of  reform.' 

1  Oh,  it  isn't  the  city ;  it's  just  Olive  Chancellor.  She 
would  reform  the  solar  system  if  she  could  get  hold  of  it. 
She'll  reform  you,  if  you  don't  look  out.  That's  the  way  I 
found  her  when  I  returned  from  Europe.' 

*  Have  you  been  in  Europe  ? '  Ransom  asked. 

'  Mercy,  yes  !     Haven't  you  ? ' 

'  No,  I  haven't  been  anywhere.     Has  your  sister  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  but  she  stayed  only  an  hour  or  two.  She  hates 
it ;  she  would  like  to  abolish  it.  Didn't  you  know  I  had 
been  to  Europe?'  Mrs.  Luna  went  on,  in  the  slightly 
aggrieved  tone  of  a  woman  who  discovers  the  limits  of  her 
reputation. 

Ransom  reflected  he  might  answer  her  that  until  five 
minutes  ago  he  didn't  know  she  existed ;  but  he  re- 
membered that  this  was  not  the  way  in  which  a  Southern 
gentleman  spoke  to  ladies,  and  he  contented  himself  with 
saying  that  he  must  condone  his  Boeotian  ignorance  (he  was 
fond  of  an  elegant  phrase) ;  that  he  lived  in  a  part  of  the 
country  where  they  didn't  think  much  about  Europe,  and 


THE  BOSTONIANS. 


that  he  had  always  supposed  she  was  domiciled  in  New 
York.  This  last  remark  he  made  at  a  venture,  for  he  had, 
naturally,  not  devoted  any  supposition  whatever  to  Mrs. 
Luna.  His  dishonesty,  however,  only  exposed  him  the 
more. 

'  If  you  thought  I  lived  in  New  York,  why  in  the  world 
didn't  you  come  and  see  me  ? '  the  lady  inquired. 

'Well,  you  see,  I  don't  go  out  much,  except  to  the 
courts.' 

'  Do  you  mean  the  law-courts  ?  Every  one  has  got  some 
profession  over  here  !  Are  you  very  ambitious  ?  You  look 
as  if  you  were.' 

'  Yes,  very,'  Basil  Ransom  replied,  with  a  smile,  and  the 
curious  feminine  softness  with  which  Southern  gentlemen 
enunciate  that  adverb. 

Mrs.  Luna  explained  that  she  had  been  living  in  Europe 
for  several  years — ever  since  her  husband  died — but  had 
come  home  a  month  before,  come  home  with  her  little  boy, 
the  only  thing  she  had  in  the  world,  and  was  paying  a  visit 
to  her  sister,  who,  of  course,  was  the  nearest  thing  after  the 
child.  '  But  it  isn't  the  same,'  she  said.  '  Olive  and  I 
disagree  so  much.' 

'  While  you  and  your  little  boy  don't,'  the  young  man 
remarked. 

'  Oh  no,  I  never  differ  from  Newton ! '  And  Mrs. 
Luna  added  that  now  she  was  back  she  didn't  know  what 
she  should  do.  That  was  the  worst  of  coming  back;  it 
was  like  being  born  again,  at  one's  age — one  had  to  begin 
life  afresh.  One  didn't  even  know  what  one  had  come 
back  for.  There  were  people  who  wanted  one  to  spend 
the  winter  in  Boston;  but  she  couldn't  stand  that — she 
knew,  at  least,  what  she  had  not  come  back  for.  Perhaps 
she  should  take  a  house  in  Washington ;  did  he  ever  hear 
of  that  little  place  ?  They  had  invented  it  while  she  was 
away.  Besides,  Olive  didn't  want  her  in  Boston,  and 
didn't  go  through  the  form  of  saying  so.  That  was 
one  comfort  with  Olive;  she  never  went  through  any 
forms. 

Basil  Ransom  had  got  up  just  as  Mrs.  Luna  made  this 
last  declaration;  for  a  young  lady  had  glided  into  the 


8  THE  BOSTONIANS.  I. 

room,  who  stopped  short  as  it  fell  upon  her  ears.  She 
stood  there  looking,  consciously  and  rather  seriously,  at 
Mr.  Ransom ;  a  smile  of  exceeding  faintness  played  about 
her  lips — it  was  just  perceptible  enough  to  light  up  the 
native  gravity  of  her  face.  It  might  have  been  likened 
to  a  thin  ray  of  moonlight  resting  upon  the  wall  of  a 
prison. 

'  If  that  were  true,'  she  said,  '  I  shouldn't  tell  you  that 
I  am  very  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting.' 

Her  voice  was  low  and  agreeable — a  cultivated  voice — 
and  she  extended  a  slender  white  hand  to  her  visitor,  who 
remarked  with  some  solemnity  (he  felt  a  certain  guilt  of 
participation  in  Mrs.  Luna's  indiscretion)  that  he  was 
intensely  happy  to  make  her  acquaintance.  He  observed 
that  Miss  Chancellor's  hand  was  at  once  cold  and  limp ; 
she  merely  placed  it  in  his,  without  exerting  the  smallest 
pressure.  Mrs.  Luna  explained  to  her  sister  that  her 
freedom  of  speech  was  caused  by  his  being  a  relation — 
though,  indeed,  he  didn't  seem  to  know  much  about  them. 
She  didn't  believe  he  had  ever  heard  of  her,  Mrs.  Luna, 
though  he  pretended,  with  his  Southern  chivalry,  that  he 
had.  She  must  be  off  to  her  dinner  now,  she  saw  the 
carriage  was  there,  and  in  her  absence  Olive  might  give 
any  version  of  her  she  chose. 

*  I  have  told  him  you  are  a  radical,  and  you  may  tell 
him,  if  you  like,  that  I  am  a  painted  JezebeL  Try  to 
reform  him;  a  person  from  Mississippi  is  sure  to  be  all 
wrong.  I  shall  be  back  very  late ;  we  are  going  to  a 
theatre-party ;  that's  why  we  dine  so  early.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Ransom,'  Mrs.  Luna  continued,  gathering  up  the  feathery 
white  shawl  which  added  to  the  volume  of  her  fairness. 
'  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  a  little,  so  that  you  may 
judge  us  for  yourself.  I  should  like  you  to  see  Newton, 
too ;  he  is  a  noble  little  nature,  and  I  want  some  advice 
about  him.  You  only  stay  to-morrow  ?  Why,  what's  the 
use  of  that  ?  Well,  mind  you  come  and  see  me  in  New 
York ;  I  shall  be  sure  to  be  part  of  the  winter  there.  I 
shall  send  you  a  card  ;  I  won't  let  you  off.  Don't  come 
out ;  my  sister  has  the  first  claim.  Olive,  why  don't  you 
take  him  to  your  female  convention?'  Mrs.  Luna's  famili- 


THE  BOSTONIANS. 


arity  extended  even  to  her  sister;  she  remarked  to  Miss 
Chancellor  that  she  looked  as  if  she  were  got  up  for  a  sea- 
voyage.  '  I  am  glad  I  haven't  opinions  that  prevent  my 
dressing  in  the  evening ! '  she  declared  from  the  doorway. 
'The  amount  of  thought  they  give  to  their  clothing,  the 
people  who  are  afraid  of  looking  frivolous  1 ' 


II. 

WHETHER  much  or  little  consideration  had  been  directed 
to  the  result,  Miss  Chancellor  certainly  would  not  have 
incurred  this  reproach.  She  was  habited  in  a  plain  dark 
dress,  without  any  ornaments,  and  her  smooth,  colourless 
hair  was  confined  as  carefully  as  that  of  her  sister  was 
encouraged  to  stray.  She  had  instantly  seated  herself,  and 
while  Mrs.  Luna  talked  she  kept  her  eyes  on  the  ground, 
glancing  even  less  toward  Basil  Ransom  than  toward  that 
woman  of  many  words.  The  young  man  was  therefore 
free  to  look  at  her ;  a  contemplation  which  showed  him 
that  she  was  agitated  and  trying  to  conceal  it.  He  wondered 
why  she  was  agitated,  not  foreseeing  that  he  was  destined  to 
discover,  later,  that  her  nature  was  like  a  skiff  in  a  stormy 
sea.  Even  after  her  sister  had  passed  out  of  the  room 
she  sat  there  with  her  eyes  turned  away,  as  if  there  had 
been  a  spell  upon  her  which  forbade  her  to  raise  them. 
Miss  Olive  Chancellor,  it  may  be  confided  to  the  reader, 
to  whom  in  the  course  of  our  history  I  shall  be  under  the 
necessity  of  imparting  much  occult  information,  was  subject 
to  fits  of  tragic  shyness,  during  which  she  was  unable  to 
meet  even  her  own  eyes  in  the  mirror.  One  of  these  fits 
had  suddenly  seized  her  now,  without  any  obvious  cause, 
though,  indeed,  Mrs.  Luna  had  made  it  worse  by  becoming 
instantly  so  personal.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  so 
personal  as  Mrs.  Luna;  her  sister  could  have  hated  her 
for  it  if  she  had  not  forbidden  herself  this  emotion  as 
directed  to  individuals.  Basil  Ransom  was  a  young  man 
of  first-rate  intelligence,  but  conscious  of  the  narrow  range, 
as  yet,  of  his  experience.  He  was  on  his  guard  against 
generalisations  which  might  be  hasty ;  but  he  had  arrived 


ii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  11 

at  two  or  three  that  were  of  value  to  a  gentleman  lately 
admitted  to  the  New  York  bar  and  looking  out  for  clients. 
One  of  them  was  to  the  effect  that  the  simplest  division  it 
is  possible  to  make  of  the  human  race  is  into  the  people 
who  take  things  hard  and  the  people  who  take  them  easy. 
He  perceived  very  quickly  that  Miss  Chancellor  belonged 
to  the  former  class.  This  was  written  so  intensely  in  her 
delicate  face  that  he  felt  an  unformulated  pity  for  her 
before  they  had  exchanged  twenty  words.  He  himself,  by 
nature,  took  things  easy  j  if  he  had  put  on  the  screw  of 
late,  it  was  after  reflection,  and  because  circumstances 
pressed  him  close.  But  this  pale  girl,  with  her  light-green 
eyes,  her  pointed  features  and  nervous  manner,  was  visibly 
morbid ;  it  was  as  plain  as  day  that  she  was  morbid.  Poor 
Ransom  announced  this  fact  to  himself  as  if  he  had  made 
a  great  discovery ;  but  in  "reality  he  had  never  been  so 
'  Boeotian '  as  at  that  moment.  It  proved  nothing  of  any 
importance,  with  regard  to  Miss  Chancellor,  to  say  that  she 
was  morbid ;  any  sufficient  account  of  her  would  lie  very 
much  to  the  rear  of  that.  Why  was  she  morbid,  and  why 
was  her  morbidness  typical  ?  Ransom  might  have  exulted  if 
he  had  gone  back  far  enough  to  explain  that  mystery.  The 
women  he  had  hitherto  known  had  been  mainly  of  his  own 
soft  clime,  and  it  was  not  often  they  exhibited  the  tendency 
he  detected  (and  cursorily  deplored)  in  Mrs.  Luna's  sister. 
That  was  the  way  he  liked  them — not  to  think  too  much, 
not  to  feel  any  responsibility  for  the  government  of  the 
world,  such  as  he  was  sure  Miss  Chancellor  felt.  If  they 
would  only  be  private  and  passive,  and  have  no  feeling  but 
for  that,  and  leave  publicity  to  the  sex  of  tougher  hide  ! 
Ransom  was  pleased  with  the  vision  of  that  remedy;  it 
must  be  repeated  that  he  was  very  provincial. 

These  considerations  were  not  present  to  him  as  definitely 
as  I  have  written  them  here ;  they  were  summed  up  in  the 
vague  compassion  which  his  cousin's  figure  excited  in  his 
mind,  and  which  was  yet  accompanied  with  a  sensible  reluc- 
tance to  know  her  better,  obvious  as  it  was  that  with  such 
a  face  as  that  she  must  be  remarkable.  He  was  sorry  for 
her,  but  he  saw  in  a  flash  that  no  one  could  help  her :  that 
was  what  made  her  tragic.  He  had  not,  seeking  his  fortune, 


12  THE  BOSTON  I ANS.  n. 

come  away  from  the  blighted  South,  which  weighed  upon 
his  heart,  to  look  out  for  tragedies ;  at  least  he  didn't  want 
them  outside  of  his  office  in  Pine  Street.  He  broke  the 
silence  ensuing  upon  Mrs.  Luna's  departure  by  one  of  the 
courteous  speeches  to  which  blighted  regions  may  still 
encourage  a  tendency,  and  presently  found  himself  talking 
comfortably  enough  with  his  hostess.  Though  he  had  said 
to  himself  that  no  one  could  help  her,  the  effect  of  his 
tone  was  to  dispel  her  shyness ;  it  was  her  great  advantage 
(for  the  career  she  had  proposed  to  herself)  that  in  certain 
conditions  she  was  liable  suddenly  to  become  bold.  She 
was  reassured  at  finding  that  her  visitor  was  peculiar ;  the 
way  he  spoke  told  her  that  it  was  no  wonder  he  had  fought 
on  the  Southern  side.  She  had  never  yet  encountered  a 
personage  so  exotic,  and  she  always  felt  more  at  her  ease  in 
the  presence  of  anything  strange.  It  was  the  usual  things 
of  life  that  filled  her  with  silent  rage ;  which  was  natural 
enough,  inasmuch  as,  to  her  vision,  almost  everything  that 
was  usual  was  iniquitous.  She  had  no  difficulty  in  asking 
him  now  whether  he  would  not  stay  to  dinner — she  hoped 
Adeline  had  given  him  her  message.  It  had  been  when 
she  was  upstairs  with  Adeline,  as  his  card  was  brought  up,  a 
sudden  and  very  abnormal  inspiration  to  offer  him  this  (for 
her)  really  ultimate  favour ;  nothing  could  be  further  from 
her  common  habit  than  to  entertain  alone,  at  any  repast,  a 
gentleman  she  had  never  seen. 

It  was  the  same  sort  of  impulse  that  had  moved  her  to 
write  to  Basil  Ransom,  in  the  spring,  after  hearing  acci- 
dentally that  he  had  come  to  the  North  and  intended,  in 
New  York,  to  practise  his  profession.  It  was  her  nature  to 
look  out  for  duties,  to  appeal  to  her  conscience  for  tasks. 
This  attentive  organ,  earnestly  consulted,  had  represented 
to  her  that  he  was  an  offshoot  of  the  old  slave-holding 
oligarchy  which,  within  her  own  vivid  remembrance,  had 
plunged  the  country  into  blood  and  tears,  and  that,  as 
associated  with  such  abominations,  he  was  not  a  worthy 
object  of  patronage  for  a  person  whose  two  brothers — her 
only  ones — had  given  up  life  for  the  Northern  cause.  It 
reminded  her,  however,  on  the  other  hand,  that  he  too  had 
been  much  bereaved,  and,  moreover,  that  he  had  fought 


II.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  13 

and  offered  his  own  life,  even  if  it  had  not  been  taken. 
She  could  not  defend  herself  against  a  rich  admiration — a 
kind  of  tenderness  of  envy — of  any  one  who  had  been  so 
happy  as  to  have  that  opportunity.  The  most  secret,  the 
most  sacred  hope  of  her  nature  was  that  she  might  some 
day  have  such  a  chance,  that  she  might  be  a  martyr  and 
die  for  something.  Basil  Ransom  had  lived,  but  she  knew 
he  had  lived  to  see  bitter  hours.  His  family  was  ruined ; 
they  had  lost  their  slaves,  their  property,  their  friends  and 
relations,  their  home ;  had  tasted  of  all  the  cruelty  of  defeat. 
He  had  tried  for  a  while  to  carry  on  the  plantation  himself, 
but  he  had  a  millstone  of  debt  round  his  neck,  and  he 
longed  for  some  work  which  would  transport  him  to  the 
haunts  of  men.  The  State  of  Mississippi  seemed  to  him 
the  state  of  despair ;  so  he  surrendered  the  remnants  of  his 
patrimony  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  and,  at  nearly  thirty 
years  of  age,  alighted  for  the  first  time  in  New  York,  in  the 
costume  of  his  province,  with  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket  and 
a  gnawing  hunger  in  his  heart. 

That  this  incident  had  revealed  to  the  young  man  his 
ignorance  of  many  things — only,  however,  to  make  him  say 
to  himself,  after  the  first  angry  blush,  that  here  he  would 
enter  the  game  and  here  he  would  win  it — so  much  Olive 
Chancellor  could  not  know;  what  was  sufficient  for  her 
was  that  he  had  rallied,  as  the  French  say,  had  accepted 
the  accomplished  fact,  had  admitted  that  North  and  South 
were  a  single,  indivisible  political  organism.  Their  cousin- 
ship — that  of  Chancellors  and  Ransoms — was  not  very 
close ;  it  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  one  might  take  up  or 
leave  alone,  as  one  pleased.  It  was  'in  the  female  line,' 
as  Basil  Ransom  had  written,  in  answering  her  letter  with  a 
good  deal  of  form  and  flourish ;  he  spoke  as  if  they  had 
been  royal  houses.  Her  mother  had  wished  to  take  it  up ; 
it  was  only  the  fear  of  seeming  patronising  to  people  in 
misfortune  that  had  prevented  her  from  writing  to  Mississippi. 
If  it  had  been  possible  to  send  Mrs.  Ransom  money,  or 
even  clothes,  she  would  have  liked  that ;  but  she  had  no 
means  of  ascertaining  how  such  an  offering  would  be  taken. 
By  the  time  Basil  came  to  the  North — making  advances,  as 
it  were — Mrs.  Chancellor  had  passed  away ;  so  it  was  for 


14  THE  BOSTONIANS.  II. 

Olive,  left  alone  in  the  little  house  in  Charles  Street  (Adeline 
being  in  Europe),  to  decide. 

She  knew  what  her  mother  would  have  done,  and  that 
helped  her  decision ;  for  her  mother  always  chose  the 
positive  course.  Olive  had  a  fear  of  everything,  but  her 
greatest  fear  was  of  being  afraid.  She  wished  immensely 
to  be  generous,  and  how  could  one  be  generous  unless  one 
ran  a  risk?  She  had  erected  it  into  a  sort  of  rule  of 
conduct  that  whenever  she  saw  a  risk  she  was  to  take  it ; 
and  she  had  frequent  humiliations  at  finding  herself  safe 
after  all.  She  was  perfectly  safe  after  writing  to  Basil 
Ransom ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  he  could 
have  done  to  her  except  thank  her  (he  was  only  excep- 
tionally superlative)  for  her  letter,  and  assure  her  that  he 
would  come  and  see  her  the  first  time  his  business  (he  was 
beginning  to  get  a  little)  should  take  him  to  Boston.  He 
had  now  come,  in  redemption  of  his  grateful  vow,  and 
even  this  did  not  make  Miss  Chancellor  feel  that  she  had 
courted  danger.  She  saw  (when  once  she  had  looked  at 
him)  that  he  would  not  put  those  worldly  interpretations  on 
things  which,  with  her,  it  was  both  an  impulse  and  a 
principle  to  defy.  He  was  too  simple — too  Mississippian 
— for  that;  she  was  almost  disappointed.  She  certainly 
had  not  hoped  that  she  might  have  struck  him  as  making 
unwomanly  overtures  (Miss  Chancellor  hated  this  epithet 
almost  as  much  as  she  hated  its  opposite);  but  she  had  a 
presentiment  that  he  would  be  too  good-natured,  primitive 
to  that  degree.  Of  all  things  in  the  world  contention  was 
most  sweet  to  her  (though  why  it  is  hard  to  imagine,  for  it 
always  cost  her  tears,  headaches,  a  day  or  two  in  bed,  acute 
emotion),  and  it  was  very  possible  Basil  .Ransom  would  not 
care  to  contend.  Nothing  could  be  more  displeasing  than 
this  indifference  when  people  didn't  agree  with  you.  That 
he  should  agree  she  did  not  in  the  least  expect  of  him ;  how 
could  a  Mississippian  agree?  If  she  had  supposed  he 
would  agree,  she  would  not  have  written  to  him. 


III. 

WHEN  he  had  told  her  that  if  she  would  take  him  as  he 
was  he  should  be  very  happy  to  dine  with  her,  she  excused 
herself  a  moment  and  went  to  give  an  order  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  young  man,  left  alone,  looked  about  the 
parlour — the  two  parlours  which,  in  their  prolonged,  adjacent 
narrowness,  formed  evidently  one  apartment — and  wandered 
to  the  windows  at  the  back,  where  there  was  a  view  of  the 
water ;  Miss  Chancellor  having  the  good  fortune  to  dwell 
on  that  side  of  Charles  Street  toward  which,  in  the  rear,  the 
afternoon  sun  slants  redly,  from  an  horizon  indented  at 
empty  intervals  with  wooden  spires,  the  masts  of  lonely 
boats,  the  chimneys  of  dirty  *  works,'  over  a  brackish  expanse 
of  anomalous  character,  which  is  too  big  for  a  river  and  too 
small  for  a  bay.  The  view  seemed  to  him  very  picturesque, 
though  in  the  gathered  dusk  little  was  left  of  it  save  a  cold 
yellow  streak  in  the  west,  a  gleam  of  brown  water,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  lights  that  had  begun  to  show  themselves 
in  a  row  of  houses,  impressive  to  Ransom  in  their  extreme 
modernness,  which  overlooked  the  same  lagoon  from  a  long 
embankment  on  the  left,  constructed  of  stones  roughly 
piled.  He  thought  this  prospect,  from  a  city -house, 
almost  romantic ;  and  he  turned  from  it  back  to  the  interior 
(illuminated  now  by  a  lamp  which  the  parlour-maid  had 
placed  on  a  table  while  he  stood  at  the  window)  as  to  some- 
thing still  more  genial  and  interesting.  The  artistic  sense 
in  Basil  Ransom  had  not  been  highly  cultivated ;  neither 
(though  he  had  passed  his  early  years  as  the  son  of  a  rich 
man)  was  his  conception  of  material  comfort  very  definite ; 
it  consisted  mainly  of  the  vision  of  plenty  of  cigars  and 
brandy  and  water  and  newspapers,  and  a  cane-bottomed 
arm-chair  of  the  right  inclination,  from  which  he  could 


16  THE  BOSTONIANS.  in. 

stretch  his  legs.  Nevertheless  it  seemed  to  him  he  had 
never  seen  an  interior  that  was  so  much  an  interior  as 
this  queer  corridor-shaped  drawing-room  of  his  new-found 
kinswoman ;  he  had  never  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  so 
much  organised  privacy  or  of  so  many  objects  that  spoke 
of  habits  and  tastes.  Most  of  the  people  he  had  hitherto 
known  had  no  tastes  ;  they  had  a  few  habits,  but  these  were 
not  of  a  sort  that  required  much  upholstery.  He  had  not 
as  yet  been  in  many  houses  in  New  York,  and  he  had 
never  before  seen  so  many  accessories.  The  general  char- 
acter of  the  place  struck  him  as  Bostonian ;  this  was,  in 
fact,  very  much  what  he  had  supposed  Boston  to  be.  He 
had  always  heard  Boston  was  a  city  of  culture,  and  now 
there  was  culture  in  Miss  Chancellor's  tables  and  sofas,  in 
the  books  that  were  everywhere,  on  little  shelves  like  brackets 
(as  if  a  book  were  a  statuette),  in  the  photographs  and  water- 
colours  that  covered  the  walls,  in  the  curtains  that  were 
festooned  rather  stiffly  in  the  doorways.  He  looked  at 
some  of  the  books  and  saw  that  his  cousin  read  German ; 
and  his  impression  of  the  importance  of  this  (as  a  symptom 
of  superiority)  was  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that  he  him- 
self had  mastered  the  tongue  (knowing  it  contained  a  large 
literature  of  jurisprudence)  during  a  long,  empty,  deadly 
summer  on  the  plantation.  It  is  a  curious  proof  of  a 
certain  crude  modesty  inherent  in  Basil  Ransom  that  the 
main  effect  of  his  observing  his  cousin's  German  books  was 
to  give  him  an  idea  of  the  natural  energy  of  Northerners. 
He  had  noticed  it  often  before  ;  he  had  already  told  himself 
that  he  must  count  with  it.  It  was  only  after  much  experience 
he  made  the  discovery  that  few  Northerners  were,  in  their 
secret  soul,  so  energetic  as  he.  Many  other  persons  had 
made  it  before  that.  He  knew  very  little  about  Miss 
Chancellor ;  he  had  come  to  see  her  only  because  she  wrote 
to  him ;  he  would  never  have  thought  of  looking  her  up, 
and  since  then  there  had  been  no  one  in  New  York  he 
might  ask  about  her.  Therefore  he  could  only  guess  that 
she  was  a  rich  young  woman ;  such  a  house,  inhabited  in 
such  a  way  by  a  quiet  spinster,  implied  a  considerable 
income.  How  much?  he  asked  himself;  five  thousand, 
ten  thousand,  fifteen  thousand  a  year  ?  There  was  richness 


in.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  17 

to  our  panting  young  man  in  the  smallest  of  these  figures. 
He  was  not  of  a  mercenary  spirit,  but  he  had  an  immense 
desire  for  success,  and  he  had  more  than  once  reflected 
that  a  moderate  capital  was  an  aid  to  achievement.  He 
had  seen  in  his  younger  years  one  of  the  biggest  failures 
that  history  commemorates,  an  immense  national  fiasco,  and 
it  had  implanted  in  his  mind  a  deep  aversion  to  the  ineffec- 
tual. It  came  over  him,  while  he  waited  for  his  hostess  to 
reappear,  that  she  was  unmarried  as  well  as  rich,  that  she 
was  sociable  (her  letter  answered  for  that)  as  well  as  single ; 
and  he  had  for  a  moment  a  whimsical  vision  of  becoming  a 
partner  in  so  flourishing  a  firm.  He  ground  his  teeth  a 
little  as  he  thought  of  the  contrasts  of  the  human  lot ;  this 
cushioned  feminine  nest  made  him  feel  unhoused  and 
underfed.  Such  a  mood,  however,  could  only  be  moment- 
ary, for  he  was  conscious  at  bottom  of  a  bigger  stomach 
than  all  the  culture  of  Charles  Street  could  fill. 

Afterwards,  when  his  cousin  had  come  back  and  they 
had  gone  down  to  dinner  together,  where  he  sat  facing  her 
at  a  little  table  decorated  in  the  middle  with  flowers,  a 
position  from  which  he  had  another  view,  through  a  window 
where  the  curtain  remained  undrawn  by  her  direction  (she 
called  his  attention  to  this — it  was  for  his  benefit),  of  the 
dusky,  empty  river,  spotted  with  points  of  light — at  this 
period,  I  say,  it  was  very  easy  for  him  to  remark  to  himself 
that  nothing  would  induce  him  to  make  love  to  such  a  type 
as  that.  Several  months  later,  in  New  York,  in  conversa- 
tion with  Mrs.  Luna,  of  whom  he  was  destined  to  see  a 
good  deal,  he  alluded  by  chance  to  this  repast,  to  the  way 
her  sister  had  placed  him  at  table,  and  to  the  remark  with 
which  she  had  pointed  out  the  advantage  of  his  seat. 

'  That's  what  they  call  in  Boston  being  very  "  thought- 
ful,'" Mrs.  Luna  said,  'giving  you  the  Back  Bay  (don't  you 
hate  the  name?)  to  look  at,  and  then  taking  credit  for  it.' 

This,  however,  was  in  the  future ;  what  Basil  Ransom 
actually  perceived  was  that  Miss  Chancellor  was  a  signal 
old  maid.  That  was  her  quality,  her  destiny;  nothing 
could  be  more  distinctly  written.  There  are  women  who 
are  unmarried  by  accident,  and  others  who  are  unmarried 
by  option ;  but  Olive  Chancellor  was  unmarried  by  every 

c 


1 8  THE  BOSTONIANS.  in. 

implication  of  her  being.  She  was  a  spinster  as  Shelley  was 
a  lyric  poet,  or  as  the  month  of  August  is  sultry.  She  was 
so  essentially  a  celibate  that  Ransom  found  himself  thinking 
of  her  as  old,  though  when  he  came  to  look  at  her  (as 
he  said  to  himself)  it  was  apparent  that  her  years  were 
fewer  than  his  own.  He  did  not  dislike  her,  she  had  been 
so  friendly ;  but,  little  by  little,  she  gave  him  an  uneasy 
feeling — the  sense  that  you  could  never  be  safe  with  a 
person  who  took  things  so  hard.  It  came  over  him  that 
it  was  because  she  took  things  hard  she  had  sought  his 
acquaintance ;  it  had  been  because  she  was  strenuous,  not 
because  she  was  genial ;  she  had  had  in  her  eye — and 
what  an  extraordinary  eye  it  was  ! — not  a  pleasure,  but  a 
duty.  She  would  expect  him  to  be  strenuous  in  return ; 
but  he  couldn't — in  private  life,  he  couldn't ;  privacy  for 
Basil  Ransom  consisted  entirely  in  what  he  called  '  laying 
off.'  She  was  not  so  plain  on  further  acquaintance  as  she 
had  seemed  to  him  at  first ;  even  the  young  Mississippian 
had  culture  enough  to  see  that  she  was  refined.  Her 
white  skin  had  a  singular  look  of  being  drawn  tightly 
across  her  face ;  but  her  features,  though  sharp  and  irregu- 
lar, were  delicate  in  a  fashion  that  suggested  good  breeding. 
Their  line  was  perverse,  but  it  was  not  poor.  The  curious 
tint  of  her  eyes  was  a  living  colour ;  when  she  turned  it 
upon  you,  you  thought  vaguely  of  the  glitter  of  green  ice. 
She  had  absolutely  no  figure,  and  presented  a  certain  ap- 
pearance of  feeling  cold.  With  all  this,  there  was  something 
very  modern  and  highly  developed  in  her  aspect ;  she  had 
the  advantages  as  well  as  the  drawbacks  of  a  nervous 
organisation.  She  smiled  constantly  at  her  guest,  but  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  dinner,  though  he  made 
several  remarks  that  he  thought  might  prove  amusing,  she 
never  once  laughed.  Later,  he  saw  that  she  was  a  woman 
without  laughter;  exhilaration,  if  it  ever  visited  her,  was 
dumb.  Once  only,  in  the  course  of  his  subsequent 
acquaintance  with  her,  did  it  find  a  voice;  and  then  the 
sound  remained  in  Ransom's  ear  as  one  of  the  strangest 
he  had  heard. 

She  asked  him  a  great  many  questions,  and  made  no 
comment  on  his  answers,  which  only  served  to  suggest  to 


in.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  19 

her  fresh  inquiries.  Her  shyness  had  quite  left  her,  it  did 
not  come  back ;  she  had  confidence  enough  to  wish  him 
to  see  that  she  took  a  great  interest  in  him.  Why  should 
she  ?  he  wondered.  He  couldn't  believe  he  was  one  of 
her  kind ;  he  was  conscious  of  much  Bohemianism — he 
drank  beer,  in  New  York,  in  cellars,  knew  no  ladies,  and 
was  familiar  with  a  '  variety '  actress.  Certainly,  as  she 
knew  him  better,  she  would  disapprove  of  him,  though,  of 
course,  he  would  never  mention  the  actress,  nor  even,  if 
necessary,  the  beer.  Ransom's  conception  of  vice  was 
purely  as  a  series  of  special  cases,  of  explicable  accidents. 
Not  that  he  cared  ;  if  it  were  a  part  of  the  Boston  character 
to  be  inquiring,  he  would  be  to  the  last  a  courteous 
Mississippian.  He  would  tell  her  about  Mississippi  as 
much  as  she  liked ;  he  didn't  care  how  much  he  told  her 
that  the  old  ideas  in  the  South  were  played  out.  She 
would  not  understand  him  any  the  better  for  that ;  she 
would  not  know  how  little  his  own  views  could  be  gathered 
from  such  a  limited  admission.  What  her  sister  imparted 
to  him  about  her  mania  for  c  reform '  had  left  in  his  mouth 
a  kind  of  unpleasant  after-taste ;  he  felt,  at  any  rate,  that 
if  she  had  the  religion  of  humanity — Basil  Ransom  had 
read  Comte,  he  had  read  everything — she  would  never 
understand  him.  He,  too,  had  a  private  vision  of  reform, 
but  the  first  principle  of  it  was  to  reform  the  reformers. 
As  they  drew  to  the  close  of  a  meal  which,  in  spite  of  all 
latent  incompatibilities,  .had  gone  off  brilliantly,  she  said  to 
him  that  she  should  have  to  leave  him  after  dinner,  unless 
perhaps  he  should  be  inclined  to  accompany  her.  She 
was  going  to  a  small  gathering  at  the  house  of  a  friend 
who  had  asked  a  few  people,  '  interested  in  new  ideas,'  to 
meet  Mrs.  Farrinder. 

'Oh,  thank  you,'  said  Basil  Ransom.     '  Is  it  a  party? 
I  haven't  been  to  a  party  since  Mississippi  seceded.' 

'No;  Miss   Birdseye    doesn't  give  parties.      She's    an 
ascetic.' 

'  Oh,  well,  we  have  had  our  dinner,'  Ransom  rejoined, 
laughing. 

His  hostess  sat  silent  a  moment,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
ground ;  she  looked  at  such  times  as  if  she  were  hesitating 


20  THE  BOSTONIANS.  in. 

greatly  between  several  things  she  might  say,  all  so  im- 
portant that  it  was  difficult  to  choose. 

'  I  think  it  might  interest  you,'  she  remarked  presently. 
'  You  will  hear  some  discussion,  if  you  are  fond  of  that. 
Perhaps  you  wouldn't  agree,'  she  added,  resting  her  strange 
eyes  on  him. 

'Perhaps  I  shouldn't — I  don't  agree  with  everything,' 
he  said,  smiling  and  stroking  his  leg. 

'Don't  you  care  for  human  progress?'  Miss  Chancellor 
went  on. 

'I  don't  know — I  never  saw  any.  Are  you  going  to 
show  me  some?' 

'  I  can  show  you  an  earnest  effort  towards  it.  That's 
the  most  one  can  be  sure  of.  But  I  am  riot  sure  you  are 
worthy.' 

'  Is  it  something  very  Bostonian  ?  I  should  like  to  see 
that,'  said  Basil  Ransom. 

'  There  are  movements  in  other  cities.  Mrs.  Farrinder 
goes  everywhere ;  she  may  speak  to-night.' 

'Mrs.  Farrinder,  the  celebrated ?' 

'  Yes,  the  celebrated ;  the  great  apostle  of  the  emanci- 
pation of  women.  She  is  a  great  friend  of  Miss  Birdseye.' 

'  And  who  is  Miss  Birdseye?' 

;  She  is  one  of  our  celebrities.  She  is  the  woman  in 
the  world,  I  suppose,  who  has  laboured  most  for  every  wise 
reform.  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,'  Miss  Chancellor 
went  on  in  a  moment,  *  she  was  one  of  the  earliest,  one  of 
the  most  passionate,  of  the  old  Abolitionists.' 

She  had  thought,  indeed,  she  ought  to  tell  him  that, 
and  it  threw  her  into  a  little  tremor  of  excitement  to  do  so. 
Yet,  if  she  had  been  afraid  he  would  show  some  irritation 
at  this  news,  she  was  disappointed  at  the  geniality  with 
which  he  exclaimed : 

'  Why,  poor  old  lady — she  must  be  quite  mature  !' 

It  was  therefore  with  some  severity  that  she  rejoined  : 

'She  will  never  be  old.  She  is  the  youngest  spirit  I 
know.  But  if  you  are  not  in  sympathy,  perhaps  you  had 
better  not  come,'  she  went  on. 

'In  sympathy  with  what,  dear  madam?'  Basil  Ransom 
asked,  failing  still,  to  her  perception,  to  catch  the  tone  of 


in.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  21 

real  seriousness.  '  If,  as  you  say,  there  is  to  be  a  discussion, 
there  will  be  different  sides,  and  of  course  one  can't  sym- 
pathise with  both,' 

*  Yes,  but  every  one  will,  in  his  way — or  in  her  way — 
plead  the  cause  of  the  new  truths.  If  you  don't  care  for 
them,  you  won't  go  with  us.' 

'  I  tell  you  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  they  are  !  I 
have  never  yet  encountered  in  the  world  any  but  old  truths 
— as  old  as  the  sun  and  moon.  How  can  I  know  ?  But 
do  take  me ;  it's  such  a  chance  to  see  Boston.' 

'It  isn't  Boston — it's  humanity!'  \  Miss  Chancellor,  as 
she  made  this  remark,  rose  from  her  chair,  and  her  move- 
ment seemed  to  say  that  she  consented.  But  before  she 
quitted  her  kinsman  to  get  ready,  she  observed  to  him  that 
she  was  sure  he  knew  what  she  meant ;  he  was  only  pre- 
tending he  didn't. 

'  Well,  perhaps,  after  all,  I  have  a  general  idea,'  he  con- 
fessed ;  '  but  don't  you  see  how  this  little  reunion  will  give 
me  a  chance  to  fix  it?' 

She  lingered  an  instant,  with  her  anxious  face.  '  Mrs. 
Farrinder  will  fix  it ! '  she  said ;  and  she  went  to  prepare 
herself. 

It  was  in  this  poor  young  lady's  nature  to  be  anxious,  to 
have  scruple  within  scruple  and  to  forecast  the  consequences 
of  things.  She  returned  in  ten  minutes,  in  her  bonnet, 
which  she  had  apparently  assumed  in  recognition  of  Miss 
Birdseye's  asceticism.  As  she  stood  there  drawing  on  her 
gloves — her  visitor  had  fortified  himself  against  Mrs. 
Farrinder  by  another  glass  of  wine — she  declared  to  him 
that  she  quite  repented  of  having  proposed  to  him  to  go ; 
something  told  her  that  he  would  be  an  unfavourable 
element. 

'  Why,  is  it  going  to  be  a  spiritual  seance  ?'  Basil  Ransom 
asked. 

'  Well,  I  have  heard  at  Miss  Birdseye's  some  inspirational 
speaking.'  Olive  Chancellor  was  determined  to  look  him 
straight  in  the  face  as  she  said  this  ;  her  sense  of  the  way 
it  might  strike  him  operated  as  a  cogent,  not  as  a  deterrent, 
reason. 

'Why,  Miss  Olive,  it's  just  got  up  on  purpose  for  me  !' 


22  THE  BOSTONIANS.  m. 

cried  the  young  Mississippian,  radiant,  and  clasping  his 
hands.  She  thought  him  very  handsome  as  he  said  this, 
but  reflected  that  unfortunately  men  didn't  care  for  the 
truth,  especially  the  new  kinds,  in  proportion  as  they  were 
good-looking.  She  had,  however,  a  moral  resource  that  she 
could  always  fall  back  upon ;  it  had  already  been  a  comfort 
to  her,  on  occasions  of  acute  feeling,  that  she  hated  men, 
as  a  class,  anyway.  '  And  I  want  so  much  to  see  an  old 
Abolitionist ;  I  have  never  laid  eyes  on  one,'  Basil  Ransom 
added. 

'  Of  course  you  couldn't  see  one  in  the  South  ;  you  were 
too  afraid  of  them  to  let  them  come  there  ! '  She  was  now 
trying  to  think  of  something  she  might  say  that  would  be 
sufficiently  disagreeable  to  make  him  cease  to  insist  on 
accompanying  her ;  for,  strange  to  record — if  anything,  in  a 
person  of  that  intense  sensibility,  be  stranger  than  any  other 
— her  second  thought  with  regard  to  having  asked  him  had 
deepened  with  the  elapsing  moments  into  an  unreasoned 
terror  of  the  effect  of  his  presence.  '  Perhaps  Miss  Birds- 
eye  won't  like  you,'  she  went  on,  as  they  waited  for  the 
carriage. 

'  I  don't  know ;  I  reckon  she  will,'  said  Basil  Ransom 
good-humouredly.  He  evidently  had  no  intention  of  giving 
up  his  opportunity. 

From  the  window  of  the  dining-room,  at  that  moment, 
they  heard  the  carriage  drive  up.  Miss  Birdseye  lived  at 
the  South  End  ;  the  distance  was  considerable,  and  Miss 
Chancellor  had  ordered  a  hackney-coach,  it  being  one  of  the 
advantages  of  living  in  Charles  Street  that  stables  were  near. 
The  logic  of  her  conduct  was  none  of  the  clearest ;  for  if 
she  had  been  alone  she  would  have  proceeded  to  her 
destination  by  the  aid  of  the  street-car ;  not  from  economy 
(for  she  had  the  good  fortune  not  to  be  obliged  to  consult 
it  to  that  degree),  and  not  from  any  love  of  wandering 
about  Boston  at  night  (a  kind  of  exposure  she  greatly  dis- 
liked), but  by  reason  of  a  theory  she  devotedly  nursed,  a 
theory  which  bade  her  put  off  invidious  differences  and 
mingle  in  the  common  life.  She  would  have  gone  on  foot 
to  Boylston  Street,  and  there  she  would  have  taken  the 
public  conveyance  (in  her  heart  she  loathed  it)  to  the  South 


in.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  23 

End.  Boston  was  full  of  poor  girls  who  had  to  walk  about 
at  night  and  to  squeeze  into  horse-cars  in  which  every  sense 
was  displeased ;  and  why  should  she  hold  herself  superior 
to  these  ?  Olive  Chancellor  regulated  her  conduct  on  lofty 
principles,  and  this  is  why,  having  to-night  the  advantage  of  a 
gentleman's  protection,  she  sent  for  a  carriage  to  obliterate 
that  patronage.  If  they  had  gone  together  in  the  common 
way  she  would  have  seemed  to  owe  it  to  him  that  she 
should  be  so  daring,  and  he  belonged  to  a  sex  to  which  she 
wished  to  be  under  no  obligations.  Months  before,  when 
she  wrote  to  him,  it  had  been  with  the  sense,  rather,  of 
putting  him  in  debt.  As  they  rolled  toward  the  South  End, 
side  by  side,  in  a  good  deal  of  silence,  bouncing  and 
bumping  over  the  railway-tracks  very  little  less,  after  all, 
than  if  their  wheels  had  been  fitted  to  them,  and  looking 
out  on  either  side  at  rows  of  red  houses,  dusky  in  the  lamp- 
light, with  protuberant  fronts,  approached  by  ladders  of 
stone ;  as  they  proceeded,  with  these  contemplative  undula- 
tions, Miss  Chancellor  said  to  her  companion,  with  a  con- 
centrated desire  to  defy  him,  as  a  punishment  for  having 
thrown  her  (she  couldn't  tell  why)  into  such  a  tremor : 

'  Don't  you  believe,  then,  in  the  coming  of  a  better  day — 
in  its  being  possible  to  do  something  for  the  human  race?' 

Poor  Ransom  perceived  the  defiance,  and  he  felt  rather 
bewildered ;  he  wondered  what  type,  after  all,  he  had  got 
hold  of,  and  what  game  was  being  played  with  him.  Why  had 
she  made  advances,  if  she  wanted  to  pinch  him  this  way  ? 
However,  he  was  good  for  any  game — that  one  as  well  as 
another — and  he  saw  that  he  was  'in'  for  something  of 
which  he  had  long  desired  to  have  a  nearer  view.  '  Well, 
Miss  Olive,'  he  answered,  putting  on  again  his  big  hat, 
which  he  had  been  holding  in  his  lap,  'what  strikes  me 
most  is  that  the  human  race  has  got  to  bear  its  troubles.' 

'  That's  what  men  say  to  women,  to  make  them  patient 
in  the  position  they  have  made  for  them.' 

'  Oh,  the  position  of  women  !'  Basil  Ransom  exclaimed. 
'  The  position  of  women  is  to  make  fools  of  men.  I  would 
change  my  position  for  yours  any  day,'  he  went  on. 
'  That's  what  I  said  to  myself  as  I  sat  there  in  your  elegant 
home.' 


24  THE  BOSTONIANS.  in. 

He  could  not  see,  in  the  dimness  of  the  carriage,  that 
she  had  flushed  quickly,  and  he  did  not  know  that  she  dis- 
liked to  be  reminded  of  certain  things  which,  for  her,  were 
mitigations  of  the  hard  feminine  lot.  But  the  passionate 
quaver  with  which,  a  moment  later,  she  answered  him 
sufficiently  assured  him  that  he  had  touched  her  at  a 
tender  point. 

'  Do  you  make  it  a  reproach  to  me  that  I  happen  to 
have  a  little  money  ?  The  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  is  to 
do  something  with  it  for  others — for  the  miserable.' 

Basil  Ransom  might  have  greeted  this  last  declaration 
with  the  sympathy  it  deserved,  might  have  commended  the 
noble  aspirations  of  his  kinswoman.  But  what  struck  him, 
rather,  was  the  oddity  of  so  sudden  a  sharpness  of  pitch  in 
an  intercourse  which,  an  hour  or  two  before,  had  begun  in 
perfect  amity,  and  he  burst  once  more  into  an  irrepressible 
laugh.  This  made  his  companion  feel,  with  intensity,  how 
little  she  was  joking.  '  I  don't  know  why  I  should  care 
what  you  think,'  she  said. 

'  Don't  care — don't  care.  What  does  it  matter  ?  It  is 
not  of  the  slightest  importance.' 

He  might  say  that,  but  it  was  not  true ;  she  felt  that 
there  were  reasons  why  she  should  care.  She  had  brought 
him  into  her  life,  and  she  should  have  to  pay  for  it.  But 
she  wished  to  know  the  worst  at  once.  '  Are  you  against 
our  emancipation  ?'  she  asked,  turning  a  white  face  on  him 
in  the  momentary  radiance  of  a  street-lamp. 

'  Do  you  mean  your  voting  and  preaching  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing?'  He  made  this  inquiry,  but  seeing  how 
seriously  she  would  take  his  answer,  he  was  almost 
frightened,  and  hung  fire.  *I  will  tell  you  when  I  have 
heard  Mrs.  Farrinder.' 

They  had  arrived  at  the  address  given  by  Miss  Chan- 
cellor to  the  coachman,  and  their  vehicle  stopped  with  a 
lurch.  Basil  Ransom  got  out ;  he  stood  at  the  door  with 
an  extended  hand,  to  assist  the  young  lady.  But  she 
seemed  to  hesitate;  she  sat  there  with  her  spectral  face. 
1  You  hate  it ! '  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone. 

'  Miss  Birdseye  will  convert  me,'  said  Ransom,  with 
intention ;  for  he  had  grown  very  curious,  and  he  was  afraid 


in.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  25 

that  now,  at  the  last,  Miss  Chancellor  would  prevent  his 
entering  the  house.  She  alighted  without  his  help,  and 
behind  her  he  ascended  the  high  steps  of  Miss  Birds- 
eye's  residence.  He  had  grown  very  curious,  and  among 
the  things  he  wanted  to  know  was  why  in  the  world  this 
ticklish  spinster  had  written  to  him. 


IV. 

SHE  had  told  him  before  they  started  that  they  should  be 
early ;  she  wished  to  see  Miss  Birdseye  alone,  before  the 
arrival  of  any  one  else.  This  was  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her — it  was  an  opportunity ;  she  was  always  so  taken 
up  with  others.  She  received  Miss  Chancellor  in  the  hall 
of  the  mansion,  which  had  a  salient  front,  an  enormous  and 
very  high  number — 756 — painted  in  gilt  on  the  glass  light 
above  the  door,  a  tin  sign  bearing  the  name  of  a  doctress 
(Mary  J.  Prance)  suspended  from  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  basement,  and  a  peculiar  look  of  being  both  new  and 
faded — a  kind  of  modern  fatigue — like  certain  articles  of 
commerce  which  are  sold  at  a  reduction  as  shop-worn. 
The  hall  was  very  narrow ;  a  considerable  part  of  it  was 
occupied  by  a  large  hat-tree,  from  which  several  coats  and 
shawls  already  depended ;  the  rest  offered  space  for  certain 
lateral  demonstrations  on  Miss  Birdseye's  part.  She  sidled 
about  her  visitors,  and  at  last  went  round  to  open  for  them 
a  door  of  further  admission,  which  happened  to  be  locked 
inside.  She  was  a  little  old  lady,  with  an  enormous  head ; 
that  was  the  first  thing  Ransom  noticed — the  vast,  fair, 
protuberant,  candid,  ungarnished  brow,  surmounting  a  pair 
of  weak,  kind,  tired-looking  eyes,  and  ineffectually  balanced 
in  the  rear  by  a  cap  which  had  the  air  of  falling  backward, 
and  which  Miss  Birdseye  suddenly  felt  for  while  she  talked, 
with  unsuccessful  irrelevant  movements.  She  had  a  sad, 
soft,  pale  face,  which  (and  it  was  the  effect  of  her  whole 
head)  looked  as  if  it  had  been  soaked,  blurred,  and  made 
vague  by  exposure  to  some  slow  dissolvent.  The  long 
practice  of  philanthropy  had  not  given  accent  to  her  features  ; 
it  had  rubbed  out  their  transitions,  their  meanings.  The 
waves  of  sympathy,  of  enthusiasm,  had  wrought  upon  them 


iv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  27 

in  the  same  way  in  which  the  waves  of  time  finally  modify 
the  surface  of  old  marble  busts,  gradually  washing  away 
their  sharpness,  their  details.  In  her  large  countenance  her 
dim  little  smile  scarcely  showed.  It  was  a  mere  sketch  of 
a  smile,  a  kind  of  instalment,  or  payment  on  account ;  it 
seemed  to  say  that  she  would  smile  more  if  she  had  time, 
but  that  you  could  see,  without  this,  that  she  was  gentle 
and  easy  to  beguile. 

She  always  dressed  in  the  same  way  :  she  wore  a  loose 
black  jacket,  with  deep  pockets,  which  were  stuffed  with 
papers,  memoranda  of  a  voluminous  correspondence ;  and 
from  beneath  her  jacket  depended  a  short  stuff  dress.  The 
brevity  of  this  simple  garment  was  the  one  device  by  which 
Miss  Birdseye  managed  to  suggest  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  business,  that  she  wished  to  be  free  for  action.  She 
belonged  to  the  Short-Skirts  League,  as  a  matter  of  course; 
for  she  belonged  to  any  and  every  league  that  had  been 
founded  for  almost  any  purpose  whatever.  This  did  not 
prevent  her  being  a  confused,  entangled,  inconsequent, 
discursive  old  woman,  whose  charity  began  at  home  and 
ended  nowhere,  whose  credulity  kept  pace  with  it,  and  who 
knew  less  about  her  fellow-creatures,  if  possible,  after  fifty 
years  of  humanitary  zeal,  than  on  the  day  she  had  gone 
into  the  field  to  testify  against  the  iniquity  of  most  arrange- 
ments. Basil  Ransom  knew  very  little  about  such  a  life  as 
hers,  but  she  seemed  to  him  a  revelation  of  a  class,  and  a 
multitude  of  socialistic  figures,  of  names  and  episodes  that 
he  had  heard  of,  grouped  themselves  behind  her.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  spent  her  life  on  platforms,  in  audi- 
ences, in  conventions,  in  phalansteries,  in  seances ;  in  her 
faded  face  there  was  a  kind  of  reflection  of  ugly  lecture- 
lamps  ;  with  its  habit  of  an  upward  angle,  it  seemed  turned 
toward  a  public  speaker,  with  an  effort  of  respiration  in  the 
thick  air  in  which  social  reforms  are  usually  discussed.  She 
talked  continually,  in  a  voice  of  which  the  spring  seemed 
broken,  like  that  of  an  over-worked  bell-wire ;  and  when 
Miss  Chancellor  explained  that  she  had  brought  Mr.  Ran- 
som because  he  was  so  anxious  to  meet  Mrs.  Farrinder, 
she  gave  the  young  man  a  delicate,  dirty,  democratic  little 
hand,  looking  at  him  kindly,  as  she  could  not  help  doing, 


28  THE  BOSTONIANS.  iv. 

but  without  the  smallest  discrimination  as  against  others 
who  might  not  have  the  good  fortune  (which  involved, 
possibly,  an  injustice)  to  be  present  on  such  an  interesting 
occasion.  She  struck  him  as  very  poor,  but  it  was  only 
afterward  that  he  learned  she  had  never  had  a  penny  in  her 
life.  No  one  had  an  idea  how  she  lived;  whenever 
money  was  given  her  she  gave  it  away  to  a  negro  or  a 
refugee.  No  woman  could  be  less  invidious,  but  on  the 
whole  she  preferred  these  two  classes  of  the  human  race. 
Since  the  Civil  War  much  of  her  occupation  was  gone ;  for 
before  that  her  best  hours  had  been  spent  in  fancying  that 
she  was  helping  some  Southern  slave  to  escape.  It  would 
have  been  a  nice  question  whether,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
for  the  sake  of  this  excitement,  she  did  not  sometimes  wish 
the  blacks  back  in  bondage.  She  had  suffered  in  the  same 
way  by  the  relaxation  of  many  European  despotisms,  for  in 
former  years  much  of  the  romance  of  her  life  had  been  in 
smoothing  the  pillow  of  exile  for  banished  conspirators. 
Her  refugees  had  been  very  precious  to  her  ;  she  was  always 
trying  to  raise  money  for  some  cadaverous  Pole,  to  obtain 
lessons  for  some  shirtless  Italian.  There  was  a  legend  that 
an  Hungarian  had  once  possessed  himself  of  her  affections, 
and  had  disappeared  after  robbing  her  of  everything  she 
possessed.  This,  however,  was  very  apocryphal,  for  she 
had  never  possessed  anything,  and  it  was  open  to  grave 
doubt  that  she  could  have  entertained  a  sentiment  so 
personal.  She  was  in  love,  even  in  those  days,  only  with 
causes,  and  she  languished  only  for  emancipations.  But 
they  had  been  the  happiest  days,  for  when  causes  were  em- 
bodied in  foreigners  (what  else  were  the  Africans?),  they 
were  certainly  more  appealing. 

She  had  just  come  down  to  see  Doctor  Prance — to  see 
whether  she  wouldn't  like  to  come  up.  But  she  wasn't  in 
her  room,  and  Miss  Birdseye  guessed  she  had  gone  out  to 
her  supper ;  she  got  her  supper  at  a  boarding-table  about 
two  blocks  off.  Miss  Birdseye  expressed  the  hope  that 
Miss  Chancellor  had  had  hers ;  she  would  have  had  plenty 
of  time  to  take  it,  for  no  one  had  come  in  yet ;  she  didn't 
know  what  made  them  all  so  late.  Ransom  perceived  that 
the  garments  suspended  to  the  hat-rack  were  not  a  sign 


iv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  29 

that  Miss  Birdseye's  friends  had  assembled;  if  he  had  gone  a 
little  further  still  he  would  have  recognised  the  house  as  one 
of  those  in  which  mysterious  articles  of  clothing  are  always 
hooked  to  something  in  the  hall.  Miss  Birdseye's  visitors, 
those  of  Doctor  Prance,  and  of  other  tenants — for  Number 
756  was  the  common  residence  of  several  persons,  among 
whom  there  prevailed  much  vagueness  of  boundary — used 
to  leave  things  to  be  called  for ;  many  of  them  went  about 
with  satchels  and  reticules,  for  which  they  were  always 
looking  for  places  of  deposit.  What  completed  the  char- 
acter of  this  interior  was  Miss  Birdseye's  own  apartment, 
into  which  her  guests  presently  made  their  way,  and  where 
they  were  joined  by  various  other  members  of  the  good 
lady's  circle.  Indeed,  it  completed  Miss  Birdseye  herself, 
if  anything  could  be  said  to  render  that  office  to  this  essen- 
tially formless  old  woman,  who  had  no  more  outline  than  a 
bundle  of  hay.  But  the  bareness  of  her  long,  loose,  empty 
parlour  (it  was  shaped  exactly  like  Miss  Chancellor's)  told 
that  she  had  never  had  any  needs  but  moral  needs,  and  that 
all  her  history  had  been  that  of  her  sympathies.  The  place 
was  lighted  by  a  small  hot  glare  of  gas,  which  made  it  look 
white  and  featureless.  It  struck  even  Basil  Ransom  with  its 
flatness,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  his  cousin  must  have  a 
very  big  bee  in  her  bonnet  to  make  her  like  such  a  house. 
He  did  not  know  then,  and  he  never  knew,  that  she  mortally 
disliked  it,  and  that  in  a  career  in  which  she  was  constantly 
exposing  herself  to  offence  and  laceration,  her  most  poignant 
suffering  came  from  the  injury  of  her  taste.  She  had  tried 
to  kill  that  nerve,  to  persuade  herself  that  taste  was  only 
frivolity  in  the  disguise  of  knowledge  ;  but  her  susceptibility 
was  constantly  blooming  afresh  and  making  her  wonder 
whether  an  absence  of  nice  arrangements  were  a  necessary 
part  of  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity.  Miss  Birdseye  was 
always  trying  to  obtain  employment,  lessons  in  drawing, 
orders  for  portraits,  for  poor  foreign  artists,  as  to  the  great- 
ness of  whose  talent  she  pledged  herself  without  reserve ; 
but  in  point  of  fact  she  had  not  the  faintest  sense  of  the 
scenic  or  plastic  side  of  life. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  the  light  of  her  hissing  burners 
smote  the  majestic  person  of  Mrs.  Farrinder,   who  might 


30  THE  BOSTONIANS.  iv. 

have  contributed  to  answer  that  question  of  Miss  Chancellor's 
in  the  negative.  She  was  a  copious,  handsome  woman,  in 
whom  angularity  had  been  corrected  by  the  air  of  success  ; 
she  had  a  rustling  dress  (it  was  evident  what  she  thought 
about  taste),  abundant  hair  of  a  glossy  blackness,  a  pair  of 
folded  arms,  the  expression  of  which  seemed  to  say  that  rest, 
in  such  a  career  as  hers,  was  as  sweet  as  it  was  brief,  and  a 
terrible  regularity  of  feature.  I  apply  that  adjective  to  her 
fine  placid  mask  because  she  seemed  to  face  you  with  a 
question  of  which  the  answer  was  preordained,  to  ask  you 
how  a  countenance  could  fail  to  be  noble  of  which  the 
measurements  were  so  correct.  You  could  contest  neither 
the  measurements  nor  the  nobleness,  and  had  to  feel  that 
Mrs.  Farrinder  imposed  herself.  There  was  a  lithographic 
smoothness  about  her,  and  a  mixture  of  the  American 
matron  and  the  public  character.  There  was  something 
public  in  her  eye,  which  was  large,  cold,  and  quiet ;  it  had 
acquired  a  sort  of  exposed  reticence  from  the  habit  of 
looking  down  from  a  lecture-desk,  over  a  sea  of  heads,  while 
its  distinguished  owner  was  eulogised  by  a  leading  citizen. 
Mrs.  Farrinder,  at  almost  any  time,  had  the  air  of  being 
introduced  by  a  few  remarks.  She  talked  with  great  slow- 
ness and  distinctness,  and  evidently  a  high  sense  of 
responsibility;  she  pronounced  every  syllable  of  every 
word  and  insisted  on  being  explicit.  If,  in  conversation 
with  her,  you  attempted  to  take  anything  for  granted,  or  to 
jump  two  or  three  steps  at  a  time,  she  paused,  looking  at 
you  with  a  cold  patience,  as  if  she  knew  that  trick,  and 
then  went  on  at  her  own  measured  pace.  She  lectured  on 
temperance  and  the  rights  of  women  ;  the  ends  she  laboured 
for  were  to  give  the  ballot  to  every  woman  in  the  country 
and  to  take  the  flowing  bowl  from  every  man.  She  was 
held  to  have  a  very  fine  manner,  and  to  embody  the 
domestic  virtues  and  the  graces  of  the  drawing-room ;  to 
be  a  shining  proof,  in  short,  that  the  forum,  for  ladies,  is 
not  necessarily  hostile  to  the  fireside.  She  had  a  husband, 
and  his  name  was  Amariah. 

Doctor  Prance  had  come  back  from  supper  and  made 
her  appearance  in  response  to  an  invitation  that  Miss  Birds- 
eye's  relaxed  voice  had  tinkled  down  to  her  from  the  hall 


iv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  31 

over  the  banisters,  with  much  repetition,  to  secure  attention. 
She  was  a  plain,  spare  young  woman,  with  short  hair  and 
an  eye-glass ;  she  looked  about  her  with  a  kind  of  near- 
sighted deprecation,  and  seemed  to  hope  that  she  should 
not  be  expected  to  generalise  in  any  way,  or  supposed  to 
have  come  up  for  any  purpose  more  social  than  to  see  what 
Miss  Birdseye  wanted  this  time.  By  nine  o'clock  twenty 
other  persons  had  arrived,  and  had  placed  themselves  in 
the  chairs  that  were  ranged  along  the  sides  of  the  long, 
bald  room,  in  which  they  ended  by  producing  the  similitude 
of  an  enormous  street-car.  The  apartment  contained  little 
else  but  these  chairs,  many  of  which  had  a  borrowed  aspect, 
an  implication  of  bare  bedrooms  in  the  upper  regions ;  a 
table  or  two  with  a  discoloured  marble  top,  a  few  books, 
and  a  collection  of  newspapers  piled  up  in  corners.  Ransom 
could  see  for  himself  that  the  occasion  was  not  crudely 
festive;  there  was  a  want  of  convivial  movement,  and, 
among  most  of  the  visitors,  even  of  mutual  recognition. 
They  sat  there  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  something ;  they 
looked  obliquely  and  silently  at  Mrs.  Farrinder,  and  were 
plainly  under  the  impression  that,  fortunately,  they  were  not 
there  to  amuse  themselves.  The  ladies,  who  were  much 
the  more  numerous,  wore  their  bonnets,  like  Miss  Chan- 
cellor j  the  men  were  in  the  garb  of  toil,  many  of  them  in 
weary-looking  overcoats.  Two  or  three  had  retained  their 
overshoes,  and  as  you  approached  them  the  odour  of  the 
india-rubber  was  perceptible.  It  was  not,  however,  that 
Miss  Birdseye  ever  noticed  anything  of  that  sort;  she 
neither  knew  what  she  smelled  nor  tasted  what  she  ate. 
Most  of  her  friends  had  an  anxious,  haggard  look,  though 
there  were  sundry  exceptions — half  a  dozen  placid,  florid 
faces.  Basil  Ransom  wondered  who  they  all  were  ;  he  had 
a  general  idea  they  were  mediums,  communists,  vege- 
tarians. It  was  not,  either,  that  Miss  Birdseye  failed  to 
wander  about  among  them  with  repetitions  of  inquiry  and 
friendly  absences  of  attention ;  she  sat  down  near  most  of 
them  in  turn,  saying  'Yes,  yes,'  vaguely  and  kindly,  to 
remarks  they  made  to  her,  feeling  for  the  papers  in  the 
pockets  of  her  loosened  bodice,  recovering  her  cap  and 
sacrificing  her  spectacles,  wondering  most  of  all  what  had 


32  THE  BOSTONIANS.  iv. 

been  her  idea  in  convoking  these  people.  Then  she  re- 
membered that  it  had  been  connected  in  some  way  with 
Mrs.  Farrinder ;  that  this  eloquent  woman  had  promised  to 
favour  the  company  with  a  few  reminiscences  of  her  last 
campaign ;  to  sketch  even,  perhaps,  the  lines  on  which  she 
intended  to  operate  during  the  coming  winter.  This  was 
what  Olive  Chancellor  had  come  to  hear ;  this  would  be 
the  attraction  for  the  dark-eyed  young  man  (he  looked  like 
a  genius)  she  had  brought  with  her.  Miss  Birdseye  made 
her  way  back  to  the  great  lecturess,  who  was  bending  an 
indulgent  attention  on  Miss  Chancellor;  the  latter  com- 
pressed into  a  small  space,  to  be  near  her,  and  sitting  with 
clasped  hands  and  a  concentration  of  inquiry  which  by 
contrast  made  Mrs.  Farrinder's  manner  seem  large  and  free. 
In  her  transit,  however,  the  hostess  was  checked  by  the 
arrival  of  fresh  pilgrims  ;  she  had  no  idea  she  had  mentioned 
the  occasion  to  so  many  people — she  only  remembered,  as 
it  were,  those  she  had  forgotten — and  it  was  certainly  a 
proof  of  the  interest  felt  in  Mrs.  Farrinder's  work.  The 
people  who  had  just  come  in  were  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Tarrant 
and  their  daughter  Verena ;  he  was  a  mesmeric  healer  and 
she  was  of  old  Abolitionist  stock.  Miss  Birdseye  rested  her 
dim,  dry  smile  upon  the  daughter,  who  was  new  to  her, 
and  it  floated  before  her  that  she  would  probably  be  remark- 
able as  a  genius ;  her  parentage  was  an  implication  of  that. 
There  was  a  genius  for  Miss  Birdseye  in  every  bush. 
Selah  Tarrant  had  effected  wonderful  cures ;  she  knew  so 
many  people — if  they  would  only  try  him.  His  wife  was  a 
daughter  of  Abraham  Greenstreet  \  she  had  kept  a  runaway 
slave  in  her  house  for  thirty  days.  That  was  years  before, 
when  this  girl  must  have  been  a  child ;  but  hadn't  it 
thrown  a  kind  of  rainbow  over  her  cradle,  and  wouldn't 
she  naturally  have  some  gift?  The  girl  was  very  pretty, 
though  she  had  red  hair. 


V. 

MRS.  FARRINDER,  meanwhile,  was  not  eager  to  address  the 
assembly.  She  confessed  as  much  to  Olive  Chancellor, 
with  a  smile  which  asked  that  a  temporary  lapse  of  prompt- 
ness might  not  be  too  harshly  judged.  She  had  addressed 
so  many  assemblies,  and  she  wanted  to  hear  what  other 
people  had  to  say.  Miss  Chancellor  herself  had  thought 
so  much  on  the  vital  subject ;  would  not  she  make  a  few 
remarks  and  give  them  some  of  her  experiences  ?  How 
did  the  ladies  on  Beacon  Street  feel  about  the  ballot? 
Perhaps  she  could  speak  for  them  more  than  for  some 
others.  That  was  a  branch  of  the  question  on  which,  it 
might  be,  the  leaders  had  not  information  enough ;  but 
they  wanted  to  take  in  everything,  and  why  shouldn't  Miss 
Chancellor  just  make  that  field  her  own?  Mrs.  Farrinder 
spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  took  views  so  wide  that  they 
might  easily,  at  first,  before  you  could  see  how  she  worked 
round,  look  almost  meretricious;  she  was  conscious  of  a 
scope  that  exceeded  the  first  flight  of  your  imagination. 
She  urged  upon  her  companion  the  idea  of  labouring  in 
the  world  of  fashion,  appeared  to  attribute  to  her  familiar 
relations  with  that  mysterious  realm,  and  wanted  to  know 
why  she  shouldn't  stir  up  some  of  her  friends  down  .there 
on  the  Mill-dam  ? 

Olive  Chancellor  received  this  appeal  with  peculiar  feel- 
ings. With  her  immense  sympathy  for  reform,  she  found 
herself  so  often  wishing  that  reformers  were  a  little  different. 
There  was  something  grand  about  Mrs.  Farrinder ;  it  lifted 
one  up  to  be  with  her :  but  there  was  a  false  note  when 
she  spoke  to  her  young  friend  about  the  ladies  in  Beacon 
Street.  Olive  hated  to  hear  that  fine  avenue  talked  about 
as  if  it  were  such  a  remarkable  place,  and  to  live  there  were 

D 


34  THE  BOSTONIANS.  v. 

a  proof  of  worldly  glory.  All  sorts  of  inferior  people  lived 
there,  and  so  brilliant  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Farrinder,  who  lived 
at  Roxbury,  ought  not  to  mix  things  up.  It  was,  of  course, 
very  wretched  to  be  irritated  by  such  mistakes ;  but  this 
was  not  the  first  time  Miss  Chancellor  had  observed  that 
the  possession  of  nerves  was  not  by  itself  a  reason  for 
embracing  the  new  truths.  She  knew  her  place  in  the 
Boston  hierarchy,  and  it  was  not  what  Mrs.  Farrinder 
supposed ;  so  that  there  was  a  want  of  perspective  in  talking 
to  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  representative  of  the  aristocracy. 
Nothing  could  be  weaker,  she  knew  very  well,  than  (in  the 
United  States)  to  apply  that  term  too  literally ;  nevertheless, 
it  would  represent  a  reality  if  one  were  to  say  that,  by  dis- 
tinction, the  Chancellors  belonged  to  the  bourgeoisie — the 
oldest  and  best.  They  might  care  for  such  a  position  or 
not  (as  it  happened,  they  were  very  proud  of  it),  but  there 
they  were,  and  it  made  Mrs.  Farrinder  seem  provincial 
(there  was  something  provincial,  after  all,  in  the  way  she 
did  her  hair  too)  not  to  understand.  When  Miss  Birdseye 
spoke  as  if  one  were  a  'leader  of  society,'  Olive  could 
forgive  her  even  that  odious  expression,  because,  of  course, 
one  never  pretended  that  she,  poor  dear,  had  the  smallest 
sense  of  the  real.  She  was  heroic,  she  was  sublime,  the 
whole  moral  history  of  Boston  was  reflected  in  her  displaced 
spectacles ;  but  it  was  a  part  of  her  originality,  as  it  were, 
that  she  was  deliciously  provincial.  Olive  Chancellor 
seemed  to  herself  to  have  privileges  enough  without  being 
affiliated  to  the  exclusive  set  and  having  invitations  to  the 
smaller  parties,  which  were  the  real  test;  it  was  a  mercy 
for  her  that  she  had  not  that  added  immorality  on  her 
conscience.  The  ladies  Mrs.  Farrinder  meant  (it  was  to 
be  supposed  she  meant  some  particular  ones)  might  speak 
for  themselves.  She  wished  to  work  in  another  field ;  she 
had  long  been  preoccupied  with  the  romance  of  the  people. 
She  had  an  immense  desire  to  know  intimately  some  very 
poor  girl.  This  might  seem  one  of  the  most  accessible  of 
pleasures  \  but,  in  point  of  fact,  she  had  not  found  it  so. 
There  were  two  or  three  pale  shop-maidens  whose  acquaint- 
ance she  had  sought ;  but  they  had  seemed  afraid  of  her, 
and  the  attempt  had  come  to  nothing.  She  took  them 


v.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  35 

more  tragically  than  they  took  themselves ;  they  couldn't 
make  out  what  she  wanted  them  to  do,  and  they  always 
ended  by  being  odiously  mixed  up  with  Charlie.  Charlie 
was  a  young  man  in  a  white  overcoat  and  a  paper  collar ; 
it  was  for  him,  in  the  last  analysis,  that  they  cared  much 
the  most.  They  cared  far  more  about  Charlie  than  about 
the  ballot.  Olive  Chancellor  wondered  how  Mrs.  Farrinder 
would  treat  that  branch  of  the  question.  In  her  researches 
among  her  young  townswomen  she  had  always  found  this 
obtrusive  swain  planted  in  her  path,  and  she  grew  at  last  to 
dislike  him  extremely.  It  filled  her  with  exasperation  to 
think  that  he  should  be  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  his 
victims  (she  had  learned  that  whatever  they  might  talk 
about  with  her,  it  was  of  him  and  him  only  that  they  dis- 
coursed among  themselves),  and  one  of  the  main  recom- 
mendations of  the  evening  club  for  her  fatigued,  underpaid 
sisters,  which  it  had  long  been  her  dream  to  establish,  was 
that  it  would  in  some  degree  undermine  his  position — 
distinct  as  her  prevision  might  be  that  he  would  be  in 
waiting  at  the  door.  She  hardly  knew  what  to  say  to 
Mrs.  Farrinder  when  this  momentarily  misdirected  woman, 
still  preoccupied  with  the  Mill-dam,  returned  to  the 
charge. 

'  We  want  labourers  in  that  field,  though  I  know  two  or 
three  lovely  women — sweet  home-women — moving  in  circles 
that  are  for  the  most  part  closed  to  every  new  voice,  who 
are  doing  their  best  to  help  on  the  fight.  I  have  several 
names  that  might  surprise  you,  names  well  known  on  State 
Street.  But  we  can't  have  too  many  recruits,  especially 
among  those  whose  refinement  is  generally  acknowledged. 
If  it  be  necessary,  we  are  prepared  to  take  certain  steps  to 
conciliate  the  shrinking.  Our  movement  is  for  all — it 
appeals  to  the  most  delicate  ladies.  Raise  the  standard 
among  them,  and  bring  me  a  thousand  names.  I  know 
several  that  I  should  like  to  have.  I  look  after  the  details 
as  well  as  the  big  currents,'  Mrs.  Farrinder  added,  in  a 
tone  as  explanatory  as  could  be  expected  of  such  a  woman, 
and  with  a  smile  of  which  the  sweetness  was  thrilling  to 
her  listener. 

'  I    can't   talk   to  those   people,   I   can't  1'   said   Olive 


36  THE  BOSTON1ANS.  V. 

Chancellor,  with  a  face  which  seemed  to  plead  for  a  re- 
mission of  responsibility.  *  I  want  to  give  myself  up  to 
others;  I  want  to  know  everything  that  lies  beneath  and 
out  of  sight,  don't  you  know?  I  want  to  enter  into  the 
lives  of  women  who  are  lonely,  who  are  piteous.  I  want 
to  be  near  to  them — to  help  them.  I  want  to  do  some- 
thing— oh,  I  should  like  so  to  speak  !' 

'  We  should  be  glad  to  have  you  make  a  few  remarks  at 
present,'  Mrs.  Farrinder  declared,  with  a  punctuality  which 
revealed  the  faculty  of  presiding. 

'  Oh  dear,  no,  I  can't  speak ;  I  have  none  of  that  sort 
of  talent.  I  have  no  self-possession,  no  eloquence ;  I  can't 
put  three  words  together.  But  I  do  want  to  contribute.' 

1  What  have  you  got?'  Mrs.  Farrinder  inquired,  looking 
at  her  interlocutress,  up  and  down,  with  the  eye  of  busi- 
ness, in  which  there  was  a  certain  chill.  '  Have  you  got 
money?' 

Olive  was  so  agitated  for  the  moment  with  the  hope 
that  this  great  woman  would  approve  of  her  on  the  financial 
side  that  she  took  no  time  to  reflect  that  some  other  quality 
might,  in  courtesy,  have  been  suggested.  But  she  con- 
fessed to  possessing  a  certain  capital,  and  the  tone  seemed 
rich  and  deep  in  which  Mrs.  Farrinder  said  to  her,  '  Then 
contribute  that !'  She  was  so  good  as  to  develop  this 
idea,  and  her  picture  of  the  part  Miss  Chancellor  might 
play  by  making  liberal  donations  to  a  fund  for  the  diffusion 
among  the  women  of  America  of  a  more  adequate  concep- 
tion of  their  public  and  private  rights — a  fund  her  adviser 
had  herself  lately  inaugurated — this  bold,  rapid  sketch 
had  the  vividness  which  characterised  the  speaker's  most 
successful  public  efforts.  It  placed  Olive  under  the  spell ; 
it  made  her  feel  almost  inspired.  If  her  life  struck  others 
in  that  way — especially  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Farrinder,  whose 
horizon  was  so  full — then  there  must  be  something  for  her 
to  do.  It  was  one  thing  to  choose  for  herself,  but  now  the 
great  representative  of  the  enfranchisement  of  their  sex  (from 
every  form  of  bondage)  had  chosen  for  her. 

The  barren,  gas-lighted  room  grew  richer  and  richer  to 
her  earnest  eyes ;  it  seemed  to  expand,  to  open  itself  to  the 
great  life  of  humanity.  The  serious,  tired  people,  in  their 


v.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  37 

bonnets  and  overcoats,  began  to  glow  like  a  company  of 
heroes.  Yes,  she  would  do  something,  Olive  Chancellor 
said  to  herself;  she  would  do  something  to  brighten  the 
darkness  of  that  dreadful  image  that  was  always  before  her, 
and  against  which  it  seemed  to  her  at  times  that  she  had 
been  born  to  lead  a  crusade — the  image  of  the  unhappiness 
of  women.  The  unhappiness  of  women !  The  voice  of 
their  silent  suffering  was  always  in  her  ears,  the  ocean  of 
tears  that  they  had  shed  from  the  beginning  of  time 
seemed  to  pour  through  her  own  eyes.  Ages  of  op- 
pression had  rolled  over  them;  uncounted  millions  had 
lived  only  to  be  tortured,  to  be  crucified.  They  were  her 
sisters,  they  were  her  own,  and  the  day  of  their  delivery 
had  dawned.  This  was  the  only  sacred  cause;  this  was 
the  great,  the  just  revolution.  It  must  triumph,  it  must 
sweep  everything  before  it ;  it  must  exact  from  the  other, 
the  brutal,  blood-stained,  ravening  race,  the  last  particle  of 
expiation  !  It  would  be  the  greatest  change  the  world  had 
seen ;  it  would  be  a  new  era  for  the  human  family,  and 
the  names  of  those  who  had  helped  to  show  the  way  and 
lead  the  squadrons  would  be  the  brightest  in  the  tables  of 
fame.  They  would  be  names  of  women  weak,  insulted, 
persecuted,  but  devoted  in  every  pulse  of  their  being  to 
the  cause,  and  asking  no  better  fate  than  to  die  for  it.  It 
was  not  clear  to  this  interesting  girl  in  what  manner  such  a 
sacrifice  (as  this  last)  would  be  required  of  her,  but  she 
saw  the  matter  through  a  kind  of  sunrise-mist  of  emotion 
which  made  danger  as  rosy  as  success.  When  Miss  Birds- 
eye  approached,  it  transfigured  her  familiar,  her  comical 
shape,  and  made  the  poor  little  humanitary  hack  seem 
already  a  martyr.  Olive  Chancellor  looked  at  her  with 
love,  remembered  that  she  had  never,  in  her  long,  unre- 
warded, weary  life,  had  a  thought  or  an  impulse  for  herself. 
She  had  been  consumed  by  the  passion  of  sympathy;  it 
had  crumpled  her  into  as  many  creases  as  an  old  glazed, 
distended  glove.  She  had  been  laughed  at,  but  she  never 
knew  it ;  she  was  treated  as  a  bore,  but  she  never  cared. 
She  had  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  clothes  on  her  back, 
and  when  she  should  go  down  into  the  grave  she  would 
leave  nothing  behind  her  but  her  grotesque,  undistinguished, 


38  THE  BOSTONIANS.  v. 

pathetic  little  name.  And  yet  people  said  that  women 
were  vain,  that  they  were  personal,  that  they  were  interested ! 
While  Miss  Birdseye  stood  there,  asking  Mrs.  Farrinder 
if  she  wouldn't  say  something,  Olive  Chancellor  tenderly 
fastened  a  small  battered  brooch  which  confined  her  collar 
and  which  had  half  detached  itself. 


VI. 

'  OH,  thank  you,'  said  Miss  Birdseye,  '  I  shouldn't  like  to 
lose  it;  it  was  given  me  by  Mirandola !'  He  had  been 
one  of  her  refugees  in  the  old  time,  when  two  or  three  of 
her  friends,  acquainted  with  the  limits  of  his  resources, 
wondered  how  he  had  come  into  possession  of  the  trinket. 
She  had  been  diverted  again,  after  her  greeting  with  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Tarrant,  by  stopping  to  introduce  the  tall,  dark 
young  man  whom  Miss  Chancellor  had  brought  with  her  to 
Doctor  Prance.  She  had  become  conscious  of  his  some- 
what sombre  figure,  uplifted  against  the  wall,  near  the  door ; 
he  was  leaning  there  in  solitude,  unacquainted  with  oppor- 
tunities which  Miss  Birdseye  felt  to  be,  collectively,  of 
value,  and  which  were  really,  of  course,  what  strangers 
came  to  Boston  for.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  herself 
why  Miss  Chancellor  didn't  talk  to  him,  since  she  had 
brought  him  ;  Miss  Birdseye  was  incapable  of  a  speculation 
of  this  kind.  Olive,  in  fact,  had  remained  vividly  conscious 
of  her  kinsman's  isolation  until  the  moment  when  Mrs. 
Farrinder  lifted  her,  with  a  word,  to  a  higher  plane.  She 
watched  him  across  the  room ;  she  saw  that  he  might  be 
bored.  But  she  proposed  to  herself  not  to  mind  that ;  she 
had  asked  him,  after  all,  not  to  come.  Then  he  was  no 
worse  off  than  others ;  he  was  only  waiting,  like  the  rest  j 
and  before  they  left  she  would  introduce  him  to  Mrs. 
Farrinder.  She  might  tell  that  lady  who  he  was  first ;  it 
was  not  every  one  that  would  care  to  know  a  person  who  had 
borne  such  a  part  in  the  Southern  disloyalty.  It  came 
over  our  young  lady  that  when  she  sought  the  acquaintance 
of  her  distant  kinsman  she  had  indeed  done  a  more  com- 
plicated thing  than  she  suspected.  The  sudden  uneasiness 
that  he  flung  over  her  in  the  carriage  had  not  left  her, 


40  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vi. 

though  she  felt  it  less  now  she  was  with  others,  and 
especially  that  she  was  close  to  Mrs.  Farrinder,  who  was 
such  a  fountain  of  strength.  At  any  rate,  if  he  was  bored, 
he  could  speak  to  some  one ;  there  were  excellent  people 
near  him,  even  if  they  were  ardent  reformers.  He  could 
speak  to  that  pretty  girl  who  had  just  come  in — the  one 
with  red  hair — if  he  liked ;  Southerners  were  supposed  to 
be  so  chivalrous ! 

Miss  Birdseye  reasoned  much  less,  and  did  not  offer  to 
introduce  him  to  Verena  Tarrant,  who  was  apparently  being 
presented  by  her  parents  to  a  group  of  friends  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  It  came  back  to  Miss  Birdseye,  in  this 
connection,  that,  sure  enough,  Verena  had  been  away  for  a 
long  time — for  nearly  a  year  \  had  been  on  a  visit 'to  friends 
in  the  West,  and  would  therefore  naturally  be  a  stranger  to 
most  of  the  Boston  circle.  Doctor  Prance  was  looking  at 
her — at  Miss  Birdseye — with  little,  sharp,  fixed  pupils  ;  and 
the  good  lady  wondered  whether  she  were  angry  at  having 
been  induced  to  come  up.  She  had  a  general  impression 
that  when  genius  was  original  its  temper  was  high,  and  all 
this  would  be  the  case  with  Doctor  Prance.  She  wanted 
to  say  to  her  that  she  could  go  down  again  if  she  liked ; 
but  even  to  Miss  Birdseye's  unsophisticated  mind  this 
scarcely  appeared,  as  regards  a  guest,  an  adequate  formula 
of  dismissal.  She  tried  to  bring  the  young  Southerner  out ; 
she  said  to  him  that  she  presumed  they  would  have  some 
entertainment  soon — Mrs.  Farrinder  could  be  interesting 
when  she  tried !  And  then  she  bethought  herself  to 
introduce  him  to  Doctor  Prance;  it  might  serve  as  a 
reason  for  having  brought  her  up.  Moreover,  it  would  do 
her  good  to  break  up  her  work  now  and  then ;  she  pursued 
her  medical  studies  far  into  the  night,  and  Miss  Birdseye, 
who  was  nothing  of  a  sleeper  (Mary  Prance,  precisely,  had 
wanted  to  treat  her  for  it),  had  heard  her,  in  the  stillness  of 
the  small  hours,  with  her  open  windows  (she  had  fresh  air 
on  the  brain),  sharpening  instruments  (it  was  Miss  Birdseye's 
mild  belief  that  she  dissected),  in  a  little  physiological 
laboratory  which  she  had  set  up  in  her  back  room,  the 
room  which,  if  she  hadn't  been  a  doctor,  might  have  been 
her  '  chamber,'  and  perhaps  was,  even  with  the  dissecting, 


vi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  41 

Miss  Birdseye  didn't  know !  She  explained  her  young 
friends  to  each  other,  a  trifle  incoherently,  perhaps,  and 
then  went  to  stir  up  Mrs.  Farrinder. 

Basil  Ransom  had  already  noticed  Doctor  Prance ;  he 
had  not  been  at  all  bored,  and  had  observed  every  one  in 
the  room,  arriving  at  all  sorts  of  ingenious  inductions.  The 
little  medical  lady  struck  him  as  a  perfect  example  of  the 
*  Yankee  female' — the  figure  which,  in  the  unregenerate 
imagination  of  the  children  of  the  cotton-States,  was  pro- 
duced by  the  New  England  school-system,  the  Puritan 
code,  the  ungenial  climate,  the  absence  of  chivalry.  Spare, 
dry,  hard,  without  a  curve,  an  inflection  or  a  grace,  she 
seemed  to  ask  no  odds  in  the  battle  of  life  and  to  be 
prepared  to  give  none.  But  Ransom  could  see  that  she 
was  not  an  enthusiast,  and  after  his  contact  with  his  cousin's 
enthusiasm  this  was  rather  a  relief  to  him.  She  looked 
like  a  boy,  and  not  even  like  a  good  boy.  It  was  evident 
that  if  she  had  been  a  boy,  she  would  have  '  cut '  school,  to 
try  private  experiments  in  mechanics  or  to  make  researches 
in  natural  history.  It  was  true  that  if  she  had  been  a  boy 
she  would  have  borne  some  relation  to  a  girl,  whereas 
Doctor  Prance  appeared  to  bear  none  whatever.  Except 
her  intelligent  eye,  she  had  no  features  to  speak  of. 
Ransom  asked  her  if  she  were  acquainted  with  the  lioness, 
and  on  her  staring  at  him,  without  response,  explained  that 
he  meant  the  renowned  Mrs.  Farrinder. 

'Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  say  that  I'm 
acquainted  with  her;  but  I've  heard  her  on  the  platform. 
I  have  paid  my  half-dollar,'  the  doctor  added,  with  a 
certain  grimness. 

'Well,  did  she  convince  you?'  Ransom  inquired 

'  Convince  me  of  what,  sir  ?' 

'  That  women  are  so  superior  to  men.' 

*  Oh,  deary  me !'  said  Doctor  Prance,  with  a  little 
impatient  sigh ;  '  I  guess  I  know  more  about  women  than 
she  does.' 

'And  that  isn't  your  opinion,  I  hope,'  said  Ransom, 
laughing. 

'Men  and  women  are  all  the  same  to  me,'  Doctor 
Prance  remarked.  '  I  don't  see  any  difference.  There  is 


42  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vi. 

room  for  improvement  in  both  sexes.  Neither  of  them  is 
up  to  the  standard.'  And  on  Ransom's  asking  her  what 
the  standard  appeared  to  her  to  be,  she  said,  '  Well,  they 
ought  to  live  better ;  that's  what  they  ought  to  do.'  And 
she  went  on  to  declare,  further,  that  she  thought  they  all 
talked  too  much.  This  had  so  long  been  Ransom's  con- 
viction that  his  heart  quite  warmed  to  Doctor  Prance,  and 
he  paid  homage  to  her  wisdom  in  the  manner  of  Mississippi 
— with  a  richness  of  compliment  that  made  her  turn  her 
acute,  suspicious  eye  upon  him.  This  checked  him ;  she 
was  capable  of  thinking  that  he  talked  too  much — she 
herself  having,  apparently,  no  general  conversation.  It  was 
german  to  the  matter,  at  any  rate,  for  him  to  observe  that 
he  believed  they  were  to  have  a  lecture  from  Mrs.  Farrinder 
— he  didn't  know  why  she  didn't  begin.  '  Yes/  said  Doctor 
Prance,  rather  drily,  '  I  suppose  that's  what  Miss  Birdseye 
called  me  up  for.  She  seemed  to  think  I  wouldn't  want  to 
miss  that.' 

'Whereas,  I  infer,  you  could  console  yourself  for  the 
loss  of  the  oration,'  Ransom  suggested. 

'Well,  I've  got  some  work.  I  don't  want  any  one  to 
teach  me  what  a  woman  can  do ! '  Doctor  Prance  declared. 
*  She  can  find  out  some  things,  if  she  tries.  Besides,  I  am 
familiar  with  Mrs.  Farrinder's  system ;  I  know  all  she  has 
got  to  say.' 

'Well,  what  is  it,  then,  since  she  continues  to  remain 
silent?' 

'  Well,  what  it  amounts  to  is  just  that  women  want  to 
have  a  better  time.  That's  what  it  comes  to  in  the  end. 
I  am  aware  of  that,  without  her  telling  me.' 

'And  don't  you  sympathise  with  such  an  aspiration?' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  cultivate  the  sentimental  side,' 
said  Doctor  Prance.  '  There's  plenty  of  sympathy  without 
mine.  If  they  want  to  have  a  better  time,  I  suppose  it's 
natural ;  so  do  men  too,  I  suppose.  But  I  don't  know  as 
it  appeals  to  me — to  make  sacrifices  for  it ;  it  ain't  such  a 
wonderful  time — the  best  you  can  have  !' 

This  little  lady  was  tough  and  technical ;  she  evidently 
didn't  care  for  great  movements ;  she  became  more  and 
more  interesting  to  Basil  Ransom,  who,  it  is  to  be  feared, 


vi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  43 

had  a  fund  of  cynicism.  He  asked  her  if  she  knew  his 
cousin,  Miss  Chancellor,  whom  he  indicated,  beside  Mrs. 
Farrinder;  she  believed,  on  the  .contrary,  in  wonderful 
times  (she  thought  they  were  coming) ;  she  had  plenty  of 
sympathy,  and  he  was  sure  she  was  willing  to  make 
sacrifices. 

Doctor  Prance  looked  at  her  across  the  room  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  said  she  didn't  know  her,  but  she 
guessed  she  knew  others  like  her — she  went  to  see  them 
when  they  were  sick.  '  She's  having  a  private  lecture  to 
herself/  Ransom  remarked;  whereupon  Doctor  Prance 
rejoined,  '  Well,  I  guess  she'll  have  to  pay  for  it ! '  She 
appeared  to  regret  her  own  half-dollar,  and  to  be  vaguely 
impatient  of  the  behaviour  of  her  sex.  Ransom  became 
so  sensible  of  this  that  he  felt  it  was  indelicate  to  allude 
further  to  the  cause  of  woman,  and,  for  a  change,  en- 
deavoured to  elicit  from  his  companion  some  information 
about  the  gentlemen  present.  He  had  given  her  a  chance, 
vainly,  to  start  some  topic  herself;  but  he  could  see  that 
she  had  no  interests  beyond  the  researches  from  which,  this 
evening,  she  had  been  torn,  and  was  incapable  of  asking 
him  a  personal  question.  She  knew  two  or  three  of  the 
gentlemen ;  she  had  seen  them  before  at  Miss  Birdseye's. 
Of  course  she  knew  principally  ladies;  the  time  hadn't 
come  when  a  lady-doctor  was  sent  for  by  a  gentleman,  and 
she  hoped  it  never  would,  though  some  people  seemed  to 
think  that  this  was  what  lady- doctors  were  working  for. 
She  knew  Mr.  Pardon  ;  that  was  the  young  man  with  the 
'side -whiskers'  and  the  white  hair;  he  was  a  kind  of 
editor,  and  he  wrote,  too,  'over  his  signature' — perhaps 
Basil  had  read  some  of  his  works ;  he  was  under  thirty,  in 
spite  of  his  white  hair.  He  was  a  great  deal  thought  of  in 
magazine  circles.  She  believed  he  was  very  bright — but 
she  hadn't  read  anything.  She  didn't  read  much — not  for 
amusement;  only  the  'Transcript.'  She  believed  Mr. 
Pardon  sometimes  wrote  in  the  'Transcript';  well,  she 
supposed  he  was  very  bright.  The  other  that  she  knew — 
only  she  didn't  know  him  (she  supposed  Basil  would  think 
that  queer) — was  the  tall,  pale  gentleman,  with  the  black 
moustache  and  the  eye-glass.  She  knew  him  because  she 


44  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vi. 

had  met  him  in  society ;  but  she  didn't  know  him — well, 
because  she  didn't  want  to.  If  he  should  come  and  speak 
to  her — and  he  looked,  as  if  he  were  going  to  work  round 
that  way — she  should  just  say  to  him,  '  Yes,  sir/  or  '  No, 
sir,'  very  coldly.  She  couldn't  help  it  if  he  did  think  her 
dry ;  if  he  were  a  little  more  dry,  it  might  be  better  for  him. 
What  was  the  matter  with  him  ?  Oh,  she  thought  she  had 
mentioned  that;  he  was  a  mesmeric  healer,  he  made 
miraculous  cures.  She  didn't  believe  in  his  system  or 
disbelieve  in  it,  one  way  or  the  other ;  she  only  knew  that 
she  had  been  called  to  see  ladies  he  had  worked  on,  and 
she  found  that  he  had  made  them  lose  a  lot  of  valuable 
time.  He  talked  to  them — well,  as  if  he  didn't  know  what 
he  was  saying.  She  guessed  he  was  quite  ignorant  of 
physiology,  and  she  didn't  think  he  ought  to  go  round 
taking  responsibilities.  She  didn't  want  to  be  narrow,  but 
she  thought  a  person  ought  to  know  something.  She  sup- 
posed Basil  would  think  her  very  uplifted ;  but  he  had  put 
the  question  to  her,  as  she  might  say.  All  she  could  say 
was  she  didn't  want  him  to  be  laying  his  hands  on  any  of 
her  folks;  it  was  all  done  with  the  hands — what  wasn't 
done  with  the  tongue !  Basil  could  see  that  Doctor  Prance 
was  irritated ;  that  this  extreme  candour  of  allusion 
to  her  neighbour  was  probably  not  habitual  to  her,  as  a 
member  of  a  society  in  which  the  casual  expression  of  strong 
opinion  generally  produced  waves  of  silence.  But  he 
blessed  her  irritation,  for  him  it  was  so  illuminating ;  and 
to  draw  further  profit  from  it  he  asked  her  who  the  young 
lady  was  with  the  red  hair — the  pretty  one,  whom  he  had 
only  noticed  during  the  last  ten  minutes.  She  was  Miss 
Tarrant,  the  daughter  of  the  healer ;  hadn't  she  mentioned 
his  name  ?  Selah  Tarrant ;  if  he  wanted  to  send  for  him. 
Doctor  Prance  wasn't  acquainted  with  her,  beyond  knowing 
that  she  was  the  mesmerist's  only  child,  and  having  heard 
something  about  her  having  some  gift — she  couldn't  remem- 
ber which  it  was.  Oh,  if  she  was  his  child,  she  would  be 

sure  to  have  some  gift — if  it  was  only  the  gift  of  the  g 

well,  she  didn't  mean  to  say  that ;  but  a  talent  for  conver- 
sation. Perhaps  she  could  die  and  come  to  life  again; 
perhaps  she  would  show  them  her  gift,  as  no  one  seemed 


vi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  45 

inclined  to  do  anything.  Yes,  she  was  pretty-appearing, 
but  there  was  a  certain  indication  of  anaemia,  and  Doctor 
Prance  would  be  surprised  if  she  didn't  eat  too  much  candy. 
Basil  thought  she  had  an  engaging  exterior;  it  was  his 
private  reflection,  coloured  doubtless  by  '  sectional'  prejudice, 
that  she  was  the  first  pretty  girl  he  had  seen  in  Boston. 
She  was  talking  with  some  ladies  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  ;  and  she  had  a  large  red  fan,  which  she  kept  con- 
stantly in  movement.  She  was  not  a  quiet  girl;  she 
fidgeted,  was  restless,  while  she  talked,  and  had  the  air  of 
a  person  who,  whatever  she  might  be  doing,  would  wish  to 
be  doing  something  else.  If  people  watched  her  a  good 
deal,  she  also  returned  their  contemplation,  and  her  charm- 
ing eyes  had  several  times  encountered  those  of  Basil 
Ransom.  But  they  wandered  mainly  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Farrinder — they  lingered  upon  the  serene  solidity  of 
the  great  oratress.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  girl  admired 
this  beneficent  woman,  and  felt  it  a  privilege  to  be  near 
her.  It  was  apparent,  indeed,  that  she  was  excited  by  the 
company  in  which  she  found  herself;  a  fact  to  be  explained 
by  a  reference  to  that  recent  period  of  exile  in  the  West,  of 
which  we  have  had  a  hint,  and  in  consequence  of  which  the 
present  occasion  may  have  seemed  to  her  a  return  to  intel- 
lectual life.  Ransom  secretly  wished  that  his  cousin — 
since  fate  was  to  reserve  for  him  a  cousin  in  Boston — had 
been  more  like  that. 

By  this  time  a  certain  agitation  was  perceptible ;  several 
ladies,  impatient  of  vain  delay,  had  left  their  places,  to 
appeal  personally  to  Mrs.  Farrinder,  who  was  presently  sur- 
rounded with  sympathetic  remonstrants.  Miss  Birdseye 
had  given  her  up ;  it  had  been  enough  for  Miss  Birdseye 
that  she  should  have  said,  when  pressed  (so  far  as  her 
hostess,  muffled  in  laxity,  could  press)  on  the  subject  of 
the  general  expectation,  that  she  could  only  deliver  her 
message  to  an  audience  which  she  felt  to  be  partially  hostile. 
There  was  no  hostility  there ;  they  were  all  only  too  much 
in  sympathy.  '  I  don't  require  sympathy,'  she  said,  with 
a  tranquil  smile,  to  Olive  Chancellor ;  '  I  am  only  myself, 
I  only  rise  to  the  occasion,  when  I  see  prejudice,  when  I 
see  bigotry,  when  I  see  injustice,  when  I  see  conservatism, 


46  THE  BOSTONIANS.  VL 

massed  before  me  like  an  army.  Then  I  feel — I  feel  as  I 
imagine  Napoleon  Bonaparte  to  have  felt  on  the  eve  of  one 
of  his  great  victories.  I  must  have  unfriendly  elements — 
I  like  to  win  them  over.' 

Olive  thought  of  Basil  Ransom,  and  wondered  whether 
he  would  do  for  an  unfriendly  element.  She  mentioned 
him  to  Mrs.  Farrinder,  who  expressed  an  earnest  hope  that 
if  he  were  opposed  to  the  principles  which  were  so  dear  to 
the  rest  of  them,  he  might  be  induced  to  take  the  floor  and 
testify  on  his  own  "account.  '  I  should  be  so  happy  to 
answer  him/  said  Mrs.  Farrinder,  with  supreme  softness. 
'  I  should  be  so  glad,  at  any  rate,  to  exchange  ideas  with 
him.'  Olive  felt  a  deep  alarm  at  the  idea  of  a  public 
dispute  between  these  two  vigorous  people  (she  had  a  per- 
ception that  Ransom  would  be  vigorous),  not  because  she 
doubted  of  the  happy  issue,  but  because  she  herself  would 
be  in  a  false  position,  as  having  brought  the  offensive  young 
man,  and  she  had  a  horror  of  false  positions.  Miss  Birds- 
eye  was  incapable  of  resentment;  she  had  invited  forty 
people  to  hear  Mrs.  Farrinder  speak,  and  now  Mrs. 
Farrinder  wouldn't  speak.  But  she  had  such  a  beautiful 
reason  for  it !  There  was  something  martial  and  heroic  in 
her  pretext,  and,  besides,  it  was  so  characteristic,  so  free, 
that  Miss  Birdseye  was  quite  consoled,  and  wandered  away, 
looking  at  her  other  guests  vaguely,  as  if  she  didn't  know 
them  from  each  other,  while  she  mentioned  to  them,  at  a 
venture,  the  excuse  for  their  disappointment,  confident, 
evidently,  that  they  would  agree  with  her  it  was  very  fine. 
'  But  we  can't  pretend  to  be  on  the  other  side,  just  to  start 
her  up,  can  we?'  she  asked  of  Mr.  Tarrant,  who  sat  there 
beside  his  wife  with  a  rather  conscious  but  by  no  means 
complacent  air  of  isolation  from  the  rest  of  the  company. 

'  Well,  I  don't  know — I  guess  we  are  all  solid  here,'  this 
gentleman  replied,  looking  round  him  with  a  slow,  deliber- 
ate smile,  which  made  his  mouth  enormous,  developed  two 
wrinkles,  as  long  as  the  wings  of  a  bat,  on  either  side  of  it, 
and  showed  a  set  of  big,  even,  carnivorous  teeth. 

1  Selah,'  said  his  wife,  laying  her  hand  on  the  sleeve  of 
his  waterproof,  '  I  wonder  whether  Miss  Birdseye  would  be 
interested  to  hear  Verena.' 


vi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  47 

'  Well,  if  you  mean  she  sings,  it's  a  shame  I  haven't  got 
a  piano,'  Miss  Birdseye  took  upon  herself  to  respond.  It 
came  back  to  her  that  the  girl  had  a  gift. 

'  She  doesn't  want  a  piano — she  doesn't  want  anything,' 
Selah  remarked,  giving  no  apparent  attention  to  his  wife. 
It  was  a  part  of  his  attitude  in  life  never  to  appear  to  be 
indebted  to  another  person  for  a  suggestion,  never  to  be 
surprised  or  unprepared. 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  that  the  interest  in  singing  is  so 
general,'  said  Miss  Birdseye,  quite  unconscious  of  any 
slackness  in  preparing  a  substitute  for  the  entertainment 
that  had  failed  her. 

*  It  isn't  singing,  you'll  see,'  Mrs.  Tarrant  declared. 

<  What  is  it,  then  ?' 

Mr.  Tarrant  unfurled  his  wrinkles,  showed  his  back  teeth. 
*  It's  inspirational.' 

Miss  Birdseye  gave  a  small,  vague,  unsceptical  laugh. 
'  Well,  if  you  can  guarantee  that ' 

'I  think  it  would  be  acceptable,'  said  Mrs.  Tarrant; 
and  putting  up  a  half-gloved,  familiar  hand,  she  drew  Miss 
Birdseye  down  to  her,  and  the  pair  explained  in  alternation 
what  it  was  their  child  could  do. 

Meanwhile,  Basil  Ransom  confessed  to  Doctor  Prance 
that  he  was,  after  all,  rather  disappointed.  He  had  ex- 
pected more  of  a  programme ;  he  wanted  to  hear  some  of 
the  new  truths.  Mrs.  Farrinder,  as  he  said,  remained 
within  her  tent,  and  he  had  hoped  not  only  to  see  these 
distinguished  people  but  also  to  listen  to  them. 

1  Well,  /  ain't  disappointed,'  the  sturdy  little  doctress 
replied.  '  If  any  question  had  been  opened,  1  suppose  I 
should  have  had  to  stay.' 

'  But  I  presume  you  don't  propose  to  retire.' 

'Well,  I've  got  to  pursue  my  studies  some  time.  I 
don't  want  the  gentlemen-doctors  to  get  ahead  of  me.' 

'  Oh,  no  one  will  ever  get  ahead  of  you,  I'm  very  sure. 
And  there  is  that  pretty  young  lady  going  over  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Farrinder.  She's  going  to  beg  her  for  a  speech — 
Mrs.  Farrinder  can't  resist  that.' 

'Well,  then,  I'll  just  trickle  out  before  she  begins. 
Good-night,  sir/  said  Doctor  Prance,  who  by  this  time  had 


48  THE  BOSTONIANS.  VL 

begun  to  appear  to  Ransom  more  susceptible  of  domestica- 
tion, as  if  she  had  been  a  small  forest-creature,  a  catamount 
or  a  ruffled  doe,  that  had  learned  to  stand  still  while  you 
stroked  it,  or  even  to  extend  a  paw.  She  ministered  to 
health,  and  she  was  healthy  herself;  if  his  cousin  could 
have  been  even  of  this  type  Basil  would  have  felt  himself 
more  fortunate. 

'Good-night,  Doctor,'  he  replied.  'You  haven't  told 
me,  after  all,  your  opinion  of  the  capacity  of  the  ladies.' 

'Capacity  for  what?'  said  Doctor  Prance.  'They've 
got  a  capacity  for  making  people  waste  time.  All  I  know 
is  that  I  don't  want  any  one  to  tell  me  what  a  lady  can 
do  !'  And  she  edged  away  from  him  softly,  as  if  she  had 
been  traversing  a  hospital-ward,  and  presently  he  saw  her 
reach  the  door,  which,  with  the  arrival  of  the  later  comers, 
had  remained  open.  She  stood  there  an  instant,  turning 
over  the  whole  assembly  a  glance  like  the  flash  of  a  watch- 
man's bull's-eye,  and  then  quickly  passed  out.  Ransom 
could  see  that  she  was  impatient  of  the  general  question 
and  bored  with  being  reminded,  even  for  the  sake  of  her 
rights,  that  she  was  a  woman — a  detail  that  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  forgetting,  having  as  many  rights  as  she  had  time 
for.  It  was  certain  that  whatever  might  become  of  the 
movement  at  large,  Doctor  Prance's  own  little  revolution 
was  a  success. 


VII. 

SHE  had  no  sooner  left  him  than  Olive  Chancellor  came 
towards  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  '  I  don't  care 
whether  you  are  here  now  or  not — I'm  all  right ! '     But 
what  her  lips  said  was  much  more  gracious ;  she  asked  him 
if  she  mightn't  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  him  to  Mrs. 
Farrinder.    Ransom  consented,  with  a  little  of  his  Southern 
flourish,  and  in  a  moment  the  lady  got  up  to  receive  him 
from  the  midst  of  the  circle  that  now  surrounded  her.     It 
was  an  occasion  for  her  to  justify  her  reputation  of  an 
elegant  manner,  and  it  must  be  impartially  related  that  she 
struck  Ransom  as  having  a  dignity  in  conversation  and  a 
command  of  the  noble  style  which  could  not  have  been 
surpassed  by  a  daughter — one  of  the  most  acccomplished, 
most  far-descended  daughters — of  his  own  latitude.    It  was 
as  if  she  had  known  that  he  was  not  eager  for  the  changes 
she  advocated,  and  wished  to  show  him  that,  especially  to  a 
Southerner  who  had  bitten  the  dust,  her  sex  could  be  mag- 
nanimous.    This  knowledge  of  his  secret  heresy  seemed  to 
him  to  be  also  in  the  faces  of  the  other  ladies,  whose  cir- 
cumspect glances,  however  (for  he  had  not  been  introduced), 
treated  it  as  a  pity  rather  than  as  a  shame.     He  was  con- 
scious of  all  these  middle-aged  feminine  eyes,  conscious  of 
curls,  rather  limp,  that  depended  from  dusky  bonnets,  of  heads 
poked  forward,,  as  if  with  a  waiting,  listening,  familiar  habit, 
of  no  one  being  very  bright  or  gay — no  one,  at  least,  but 
that  girl  he  had  noticed  before,  who  had  a  brilliant  head, 
and  who  now  hovered  on  the  edge  of  the  conclave.     He 
met  her  eye  again ;  she  was  watching  him  too.    It  had  been 
in  his  thought  that  Mrs.  Farrinder,  to  whom  his  cousin 
might  have  betrayed  or  misrepresented  him,  would  perhaps 
defy  him  to  combat,  and  he  wondered  whether  he  could 


So  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vn. 

pull  himself  together  (he  was  extremely  embarrassed) 
sufficiently  to  do  honour  to  such  a  challenge.  If  she  would 
fling  down  the  glove  on  the  temperance  question,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  it  would  be  in  him  to  pick  it  up ;  for  the  idea 
of  a  meddling  legislation  on  this  subject  filled  him  with 
rage ;  the  taste  of  liquor  being  good  to  him,  and  his  con- 
viction strong  that  civilisation  itself  would  be  in  danger  if  it 
should  fall  into  the  power  of  a  herd  of  vociferating  women 
(I  am  but  the  reporter  of  his  angry  formulce)  to  prevent  a 
gentleman  from  taking  his  glass.  Mrs.  Farrinder  proved 
to  him  that  she  had  not  the  eagerness  of  insecurity ;  she 
asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  like  to  give  the  company  some 
account  of  the  social  and  political  condition  of  the  South. 
He  begged  to  be  excused,  expressing  at  the  same  time  a 
high  sense  of  the  honour  done  him  by  such  a  request,  while 
he  smiled  to  himself  at  the  idea  of  his  extemporising  a 
lecture.  He  smiled  even  while  he  suspected  the  meaning 
of  the  look  Miss  Chancellor  gave  him :  '  Well,  you  are  not 
of  much  account  after  all!'  To  talk  to  those  people  about 
the  South — if  they  could  have  guessed  how  little  he  cared 
to  do  it !  He  had  a  passionate  tenderness  for  his  own 
country,  and  a  sense  of  intimate  connection  with  it  which 
would  have  made  it  as  impossible  for  him  to  take  a  room- 
ful of  Northern  fanatics  into  his  confidence  as  to  read  aloud 
his  mother's  or  his  mistress's  letters.  To  be  quiet  about 
the  Southern  land,  not  to  touch  her  with  vulgar  hands,  to 
leave  her  alone  with  her  wounds  and  her  memories,  not 
prating  in  the  market-place  either  of  her  troubles  or  her 
hopes,  but  waiting  as  a  man  should  wait,  for  the  slow 
process,  the  sensible  beneficence,  of  time — this  was  the 
desire  of  Ransom's  heart,  and  he  was  aware  of  how  little  it 
could  minister  to  the  entertainment  of  Miss  Birdseye's 
guests. 

'  We  know  so  little  about  the  women  of  the  South ;  they 
are  very  voiceless,'  Mrs.  Farrinder  remarked.  '  How  much 
can  we  count  upon  them?  in  what  numbers  would  they 
flock  to  our  standard  ?  I  have  been  recommended  not  to 
lecture  in  the  Southern  cities.' 

'Ah,  madam,  that  was  very  cruel  advice — for  us!' 
Basil  Ransom  exclaimed,  with  gallantry. 


vii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  51 

*  /  had  a  magnificent  audience  last  spring  in  St.  Louis,' 
a  fresh  young  voice  announced,  over  the  heads  of  the 
gathered  group — a  voice  which,  on  Basil's  turning,  like 
every  one  else,  for  an  explanation,  appeared  to  have  pro- 
ceeded from  the  pretty  girl  with  red  hair.  She  had 
coloured  a  little  with  the  effort  of  making  this  declaration, 
and  she  stood  there  smiling  at  her  listeners. 

Mrs.  Farrinder  bent  a  benignant  brow  upon  her,  in  spite 
of  her  being,  evidently,  rather  a  surprise.  ' Oh,  indeed  j 
and  your  subject,  my  dear  young  lady  ?' 

'  The  past  history,  the  present  condition,  and  the  future 
prospects  of  our  sex.' 

'Oh,  well,  St.  Louis — that's  scarcely  the  South,'  said 
one  of  the  ladies. 

'  I'm  sure  the  young  lady  would  have  had  equal  success 
at  Charleston  or  New  Orleans,'  Basil  Ransom  interposed. 

'  Well,  I  wanted  to  go  farther,'  the  girl  continued,  '  but 
I  had  no  friends.  I  have  friends  in  St.  Louis.' 

'You  oughtn't  to  want  for  them  anywhere,'  said  Mrs. 
Farrinder,  in  a  manner  which,  by  this  time,  had  quite 
explained  her  reputation.  '  I  am  acquainted  with  the 
loyalty  of  St.  Louis.' 

'Well,  after  that,  you  must  let  me  introduce  Miss 
Tarrant;  she's  perfectly  dying  to  know  you,  Mrs.  Farrinder.' 
These  words  emanated  from  one  of  the  gentlemen,  the 
young  man  with  white  hair,  who  had  been  mentioned  to 
Ransom  by  Doctor  Prance  as  a  celebrated  magazinist. 
He,  too,  up  to  this  moment,  had  hovered  in  the  back- 
ground, but  he  now  gently  clove  the  assembly  (several  of 
the  ladies  made  way  for  him),  leading  in  the  daughter  of 
the  mesmerist. 

She  laughed  and  continued  to  blush — her  blush  was  the 
faintest  pink ;  she  looked  very  young  and  slim  and  fair  as 
Mrs.  Farrinder  made  way  for  her  on  the  sofa  which  Olive 
Chancellor  had  quitted.  '  I  have  wanted  to  know  you ;  I 
admire  you  so  much ;  I  hoped  so  you  would  speak  to-night. 
It's  too  lovely  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Farrinder.'  So  she  ex- 
pressed herself,  while  the  company  watched  the  encounter 
with  a  look  of  refreshed  inanition.  '  You  don't  know  who 
I  am,  of  course ;  I'm  just  a  girl  who  wants  to  thank  you 


52  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vn. 

for  all  you  have  done  for  us.  For  you  have  spoken  for  us 
girls,  just  as  much  as — just  as  much  as '  She  hesi- 
tated now,  looking  about  with  enthusiastic  eyes  at  the  rest 
of  the  group,  and  meeting  once  more  the  gaze  of  Basil 
Ransom. 

'Just  as  much  as  for  the  old  women/  said  Mrs. 
Farrinder,  genially.  'You  seem  very  well  able  to  speak 
for  yourself.' 

'  She  speaks  so  beautifully — if  she  would  only  make  a 
little  address,'  the  young  man  who  had  introduced  her 
remarked.  '  It's  a  new  style,  quite  original,'  he  added. 
He  stood  there  with  folded  arms,  looking  down  at  his  work, 
the  conjunction  of  the  two  ladies,  with  a  smile ;  and  Basil 
Ransom,  remembering  what  Miss  Prance  had  told  him,  and 
enlightened  by  his  observation  in  New  York  of  some  of  the 
sources  from  which  newspapers  are  fed,  was  immediately 
touched  by  the  conviction  that  he  perceived  in  it  the 
material  of  a  paragraph. 

<  My  dear  child,  if  you'll  take  the  floor,  I'll  call  the 
meeting  to  order,'  said  Mrs.  Farrinder. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  extraordinary  candour  and 
confidence.  '  If  I  could  only  hear  you  first — just  to  give 
me  an  atmosphere.' 

'  I've  got  no  atmosphere ;  there's  very  little  of  the 
Indian  summer  about  me  I  I  deal  with  facts — hard  facts,' 
Mrs.  Farrinder  replied.  'Have  you  ever  heard  me?  If 
so,  you  know  how  crisp  I  am.' 

'  Heard  you  ?  I've  lived  on  you  !  It's  so  much  to  me 
to  see  you.  Ask  mother  if  it  ain't ! '  She  had  expressed 
herself,  from  the  first  word  she  uttered,  with  a  promptness 
and  assurance  which  gave  almost  the  impression  of  a  lesson 
rehearsed  in  advance.  And  yet  there  was  a  strange  spon- 
taneity in  her  manner,  and  an  air  of  artless  enthusiasm,  of 
personal  purity.  If  she  was  theatrical,  she  was  naturally 
theatrical.  She  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Farrinder  with  all  her 
emotion  in  her  smiling  eyes.  This  lady  had  been  the 
object  of  many  ovations ;  it  was  familiar  to  her  that  the 
collective  heart  of  her  sex  had  gone  forth  to  her;  but, 
visibly,  she  was  puzzled  by  this  unforeseen  embodiment  of 
gratitude  and  fluency,  and  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  girl 


vii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  53 

with  a  certain  reserve,  while,  within  the  depth  of  her 
eminently  public  manner,  she  asked  herself  whether  Miss 
Tarrant  were  a  remarkable  young  woman  or  only  a  forward 
minx.  She  found  a  response  which  committed  her  to 
neither  view ;  she  only  said,  *  We  want  the  young — of 
course  we  want  the  young ! ' 

'Who  is  that  charming  creature ?'  Basil  Ransom  heard 
his  cousin  ask,  in  a  grave,  lowered  tone,  of  Matthias  Pardon, 
the  young  man  who  had  brought  Miss  Tarrant  forward. 
He  didn't  know  whether  Miss  Chancellor  knew  him,  or 
whether  her  curiosity  had  pushed  her  to  boldness.  Ransom 
was  near  the  pair,  and  had  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Pardon's 
answer. 

*  The  daughter  of  Doctor  Tarrant,  the  mesmeric  healer 
— Miss  Verena.  She's  a  high-class  speaker.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?'  Olive  asked.  '  Does  she  give 
public  addresses?' 

'  Oh  yes,  she  has  had  quite  a  career  in  the  West.  I 
heard  her  last  spring  at  Topeka.  They  call  it  inspirational. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is — only  it's  exquisite ;  so  fresh  and 
poetical.  She  has  to  have  her  father  to  start  her  up.  It 
seems  to  pass  into  her.'  And  Mr.  Pardon  indulged  in  a 
gesture  intended  to  signify  the  passage. 

Olive  Chancellor  made  no  rejoinder  save  a  low,  im- 
patient sigh ;  she  transferred  her  attention  to  the  girl,  who 
now  held  Mrs.  Farrinder's  hand  in  both  her  own,  and  was 
pleading  with  her  just  to  prelude  a  little.  '  I  want  a  starting- 
point — I  want  to  know  where  I  am,'  she  said.  *  Just  two 
or  three  of  your  grand  old  thoughts.' 

Basil  stepped  nearer  to  his  cousin ;  he  remarked  to  her 
that  Miss  Verena  was  very  pretty.  She  turned  an  instant, 
glanced  at  him,  and  then  said,  'Do  you  think  so?'  An 
instant  later  she  added,  '  How  you  must  hate  this  place  !' 

'  Oh,  not  now,  we  are  going  to  have  some  fun,'  Ransom 
replied  good-humouredly,  if  a  trifle  coarsely ;  and  the  de- 
claration had  a  point,  for  Miss  Birdseye  at  this  moment 
reappeared,  followed  by  the  mesmeric  healer  and  his  wife. 

'Ah,  well,  I  see  you  are  drawing  her  out,'  said  Miss 
Birdseye  to  Mrs.  Farrinder  ;  and  at  the  idea  that  this 
process  had  been  necessary  Basil  Ransom  broke  into  a 


54  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vn. 

smothered  hilarity,  a  spasm  which  indicated  that,  for  him, 
the  fun  had  already  begun,  and  procured  him  another  grave 
glance  from  Miss  Chancellor.  Miss  Verena  seemed  to  him 
as  far  '  out '  as  a  young  woman  could  be.  '  Here's  her 
father,  Doctor  Tarrant — he  has  a  wonderful  gift — and  her 
mother — she  was  a  daughter  of  Abraham  Greenstreet' 
Miss  Birdseye  presented  her  companion;  she  was  sure 
Mrs.  Farrinder  would  be  interested ;  she  wouldn't  want  to 
lose  an  opportunity,  even  if  for  herself  the  conditions  were 
not  favourable.  And  then  Miss  Birdseye  addressed  herself 
to  the  company  more  at  large,  widening  the  circle  so  as  to 
take  in  the  most  scattered  guests,  and  evidently  feeling  that 
after  all  it  was  a  relief  that  one  happened  to  have  an  ob- 
scurely inspired  maiden  on  the  premises  when  greater 
celebrities  had  betrayed  the  whimsicality  of  genius.  It  was 
a  part  of  this  whimsicality  that  Mrs.  Farrinder — the  reader 
may  find  it  difficult  to  keep  pace  with  her  variations  — 
appeared  now  to  have  decided  to  utter  a  few  of  her  thoughts, 
so  that  her  hostess  could  elicit  a  general  response  to  the 
remark  that  it  would  be  delightful  to  have  both  the  old 
school  and  the  new. 

'  Well,  perhaps  you'll  be  disappointed  in  Verena,'  said 
Mrs.  Tarrant,  with  an  air  of  dolorous  resignation  to  any 
event,  and  seating  herself,  with  her  gathered  mantle,  on  the 
edge  of  a  chair,  as  if  she,  at  least,  were  ready,  whoever  else 
might  keep  on  talking. 

'  It  isn't  me,  mother,'  Verena  rejoinded,  with  soft  gravity, 
rather  detached  now  from  Mrs.  Farrinder,  and  sitting  with 
her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  ground.  With  deference 
to  Mrs.  Tarrant,  a  little  more  talk  was  necessary,  for  the 
young  lady  had  as  yet  been  insufficiently  explained.  Miss 
Birdseye  felt  this,  but  she  was  rather  helpless  about  it,  and 
delivered  herself,  with  her  universal  familiarity,  which  em- 
braced every  one  and  everything,  of  a  wandering,  amiable 
tale,  in  which  Abraham  Greenstreet  kept  reappearing,  in 
which  Doctor  Tarrant's  miraculous  cures  were  specified, 
with  all  the  facts  wanting,  and  in  which  Verena's  successes 
in  the  West  were  related,  not  with  emphasis  or  hyperbole, 
in  which  Miss  Birdseye  never  indulged,  but  as  accepted 
and  recognised  wonders,  natural  in  an  age  of  new  revelations. 


vii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  55 

She  had  heard  of  these  things  in  detail  only  ten  minutes 
before,  from  the  girl's  parents,  but  her  hospitable  soul  had 
needed  but  a  moment  to  swallow  and  assimilate  them.  If 
her  account  of  them  was  not  very  lucid,  it  should  be  said 
in  excuse  for  her  that  it  was  impossible  to  have  any  idea 
of  Verena  Tarrant  unless  one  had  heard  her,  and  therefore 
still  more  impossible  to  give  an  idea  to  others.  Mrs.  Far- 
rinder  was  perceptibly  irritated  ;  she  appeared  to  have 
made  up  her  mind,  after  her  first  hesitation,  that  the 
Tarrant  family  were  fantastical  and  compromising.  She 
had  bent  an  eye  of  coldness  on  Selah  and  his  wife — she 
might  have  regarded  them  all  as  a  company  of  mounte- 
banks. 

'  Stand  up  and  tell  us  what  you  have  to  say,'  she  re- 
marked, with  some  sternness,  to  Verena,  who  only  raised 
her  eyes  to  her,  silently  now,  with  the  same  sweetness,  and 
then  rested  them  on  her  father.  This  gentleman  seemed 
to  respond  to  an  irresistible  appeal ;  he  looked  round  at  the 
company  with  all  his  teeth,  and  said  that  these  flattering 
allusions  were  not  so  embarrassing  as  they  might  otherwise 
be,  inasmuch  as  any  success  that  he  and  his  daughter  might 
have  had  was  so  thoroughly  impersonal :  he  insisted  on 
that  word.  They  had  just  heard  her  say,  '  It  is  not  me, 
mother,'  and  he  and  Mrs.  Tarrant  and  the  girl  herself  were 
all  equally  aware  it  was  not  she.  It  was  some  power  out- 
side— it  seemed  to  flow  through  her  \  he  couldn't  pretend 
to  say  why  his  daughter  should  be  called,  more  than  any 
one  else.  But  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  called.  When  he 
just  calmed  her  down  by  laying  his  hand  on  her  a  few 
moments,  it  seemed  to  come.  It  so  happened  that  in  the 
West  it  had  taken  the  form  of  a  considerable  eloquence. 
She  had  certainly  spoken  with  great  facility  to  cultivated 
and  high-minded  audiences.  She  had  long  followed  with 
sympathy  the  movement  for  the  liberation  of  her  sex  from 
every  sort  of  bondage ;  it  had  been  her  principal  interest 
even  as  a  child  (he  might  mention  that  at  the  age  of  nine 
she  had  christened  her  favourite  doll  Eliza  P.  Moseley,  in 
memory  of  a  great  precursor  whom  they  all  reverenced), 
and  now  the  inspiration,  if  he  might  call  it  so,  seemed  just 
to  flow  in  that  channel.  The  voice  that  spoke  from  her 


56  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vn. 

lips  seemed  to  want  to  take  that  form.  It  didn't  seem  as 
if  it  could  take  any  other.  She  let  it  come  out  just  as  it 
would — she  didn't  pretend  to  have  any  control.  They 
could  judge  for  themselves  whether  the  whole  thing  was 
not  quite  unique.  That  was  why  he  was  willing  to  talk 
about  his  own  child  that  way,  before  a  gathering  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen ;  it  was  because  they  took  no  credit — they 
felt  it  was  a  power  outside.  If  Verena  felt  she  was  going 
to  be  stimulated  that  evening,  he  was  pretty  sure  they  would 
be  interested.  Only  he  should  have  to  request  a  few 
moments'  silence,  while  she  listened  for  the  voice. 

Several  of  the  ladies  declared  that  they  should  be  de- 
lighted— they  hoped  that  Miss  Tarrant  was  in  good  trim  • 
whereupon  they  were  corrected  by  others,  who  reminded 
them  that  it  wasn't  her — she  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
so  her  trim  didn't  matter ;  and  a  gentleman  added  that  he 
guessed  there  were  many  present  who  had  conversed  with 
Eliza  P.  Moseley.  Meanwhile  Verena,  more  and  more 
withdrawn  into  herself,  but  perfectly  undisturbed  by  the 
public  discussion  of  her  mystic  faculty,  turned  yet  again, 
very  prettily,  to  Mrs.  Farrinder,  and  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't 
strike  out — just  to  give  her  courage.  By  this  time  Mrs. 
Farrinder  was  in  a  condition  of  overhanging  gloom;  she 
greeted  the  charming  suppliant  with  the  frown  of  Juno. 
She  disapproved  completely  of  Doctor  Tarrant's  little  speech, 
and  she  had  less  and  less  disposition  to  be  associated  with 
a  miracle -monger.  Abraham  Greenstreet  was  very  well,  but 
Abraham  Greenstreet  was  in  his  grave ;  and  Eliza  P.  Mose- 
ley, after  all,  had  been  very  tepid.  Basil  Ransom  wondered 
whether  it  were  effrontery  or  innocence  that  enabled  Miss 
Tarrant  to  meet  with  such  complacency  the  aloofness  of 
the  elder  lady.  At  this  moment  he  heard  Olive  Chancellor, 
at  his  elbow,  with  the  tremor  of  excitement  in  her  tone, 
suddenly  exclaim  :  '  Please  begin,  please  begin  !  A  voice, 
a  human  voice,  is  what  we  want.' 

'  I'll  speak  after  you,  and  if  you're  a  humbug,  I'll  expose 
you  !'  Mrs.  Farrinder  said.  She  was  more  majestic  than 
facetious. 

'  I'm  sure  we  are  all  solid,  as  Doctor  Tarrant  says.  I 
suppose  we  want  to  be  quiet,'  Miss  Birdseye  remarked. 


VIII 

VERENA  TARRANT  got  up  and  went  to  her  father  in  the 
middle  of  the  room ;  Olive  Chancellor  crossed  and  resumed 
her  place  beside  Mrs.  Farrinder  on  the  sofa  the  girl  had 
quitted ;  and  Miss  Birdseye's  visitors,  for  the  rest,  settled 
themselves  attentively  in  chairs  or  leaned  against  the  bare 
sides  of  the  parlour.  Verena  took  her  father's  hands,  held 
them  for  a  moment,  while  she  stood  before  him,  not  looking 
at  him,  with  her  eyes  towards  the  company  ;  then,  after  an 
instant,  her  mother,  rising,  pushed  forward,  with  an  interesting 
sigh,  the  chair  on  which  she  had  been  sitting.  Mrs. 
Tarrant  was  provided  with  another  seat,  and  Verena,  relin- 
quishing her  father's  grasp,  placed  herself  in  the  chair, 
which  Tarrant  put  in  position  for  her.  She  sat  there  with 
closed  eyes,  and  her  father  now  rested  his  long,  lean  hands 
upon  her  head.  Basil  Ransom  watched  these  proceedings 
with  much  interest,  for  the  girl  amused  and  pleased  him. 
She  had  far  more  colour  than  any  one  there,  for  whatever 
brightness  was  to  be  found  in  Miss  Birdseye's  rather  faded 
and  dingy  human  collection  had  gathered  itself  into  this 
attractive  but  ambiguous  young  person.  There  was  nothing 
ambiguous,  by  the  way,  about  her  confederate;  Ransom 
simply  loathed  him,  from  the  moment  he  opened  his  mouth ; 
he  was  intensely  familiar — that  is,  his  type  was;  he  was 
simply  the  detested  carpet-bagger.  He  was  false,  cunning, 
vulgar,  ignoble;  the  cheapest  kind  of  human  product. 
That  he  should  be  the  father  of  a  delicate,  pretty  girl,  who 
was  apparently  clever  too,  whether  she  had  a  gift  or  no, 
this  was  an  annoying,  disconcerting  fact.  The  white,  puffy 
mother,  with  the  high  forehead,  in  the  corner  there,  looked 
more  like  a  lady ;  but  if  she  were  one,  it  was  all  the  more 
shame  to  her  to  have  mated  with  such  a  varlet,  Ransom 


58  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vm. 

said  to  himself,  making  use,  as  he  did  generally,  of  terms 
of  opprobrium  extracted  from  the  older  English  literature. 
He  had  seen  Tarrant,  or  his  equivalent,  often  before ;  he 
had  '  whipped '  him,  as  he  believed,  controversially,  again 
and  again,  at  political  meetings  in  blighted  Southern  towns, 
during  the  horrible  period  of  reconstruction.  If  Mrs. 
Farrinder  had  looked  at  Verena  Tarrant  as  if  she  were  a 
mountebank,  there  was  some  excuse  for  it,  inasmuch  as  the 
girl  made  much  the  same  impression  on  Basil  Ransom. 
He  had  never  seen  such  an  odd  mixture  of  elements ;  she 
had  the  sweetest,  most  unworldly  face,  and  yet,  with  it,  an 
air  of  being  on  exhibition,  of  belonging  to  a  troupe,  of 
living  in  the  gaslight,  which  pervaded  even  the  details  of 
her  dress,  fashioned  evidently  with  an  attempt  at  the 
histrionic.  If  she  had  produced  a  pair  of  castanets  or  a 
tambourine,  he  felt  that  such  accessories  would  have  been 
quite  in  keeping. 

Little  Doctor  Prance,  with  her  hard  good  sense,  had 
noted  that  she  was  anaemic,  and  had  intimated  that  she  was 
a  deceiver.  The  value  of  her  performance  was  yet  to  be 
proved,  but  she  was  certainly  very  pale,  white  as  women 
are  who  have  that  shade  of  red  hair ;  they  look  as  if  their 
blood  had  gone  into  it  There  was,  however,  something 
rich  in  the  fairness  of  this  young  lady ;  she  was  strong  and 
supple,  there  was  colour  in  her  lips  and  eyes,  and  her  tresses, 
gathered  into  a  complicated  coil,  seemed  to  glow  with  the 
brightness  of  her  nature.  She  had  curious,  radiant,  liquid 
eyes  (their  smile  was  a  sort  of  reflection,  like  the  glisten  of 
a  gem),  and  though  she  was  not  tall,  she  appeared  to  spring 
up,  and  carried  her  head  as  if  it  reached  rather  high. 
Ransom  would  have  thought  she  looked  like  an  Oriental, 
if  it  were  not  that  Orientals  are  dark ;  and  if  she  had  only 
had  a  goat  she  would  have  resembled  Esmeralda,  though 
he  had  but  a  vague  recollection  of  who  Esmeralda  had  been. 
She  wore  a  light-brown  dress,  of  a  shape  that  struck  him  as 
fantastic,  a  yellow  petticoat,  and  a  large  crimson  sash 
fastened  at  the  side ;  while  round  her  neck,  and  falling  low 
upon  her  flat  young  chest,  she  had  a  double  chain  of  amber 
beads.  It  must  be  added  that,  in  spite  of  her  melodramatic 
appearance,  there  was  no  symptom  that  her  performance, 


viii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  59 

whatever  it  was,  would  be  of  a  melodramatic  character.  She 
was  very  quiet  now,  at  least  (she  had  folded  her  big  fan), 
and  her  father  continued  the  mysterious  process  of  calming 
her  down.  Ransom  wondered  whether  he  wouldn't  put  her 
to  sleep ;  for  some  minutes  her  eyes  had  remained  closed ; 
he  heard  a  lady  near  him,  apparently  familiar  with  pheno- 
mena of  this  class,  remark  that  she  was  going  off.  As  yet 
the  exhibition  was  not  exciting,  though  it  was  certainly 
pleasant  to  have  such  a  pretty  girl  placed  there  before  one, 
like  a  moving  statue.  Doctor  Tarrant  looked  at  no  one 
as  he  stroked  and  soothed  his  daughter ;  his  eyes  wandered 
round  the  cornice  of  the  room,  and  he  grinned  upward,  as 
if  at  an  imaginary  gallery.  '  Quietly — quietly/  he  murmured, 
from  time  to  time.  *  It  will  come,  my  good  child,  it  will 
come.  Just  let  it  work — just  let  it  gather.  The  spirit,  you 
know;  you've  got  to  let  the  spirit  come  out  when  it  will.' 
He  threw  up  his  arms  at  moments,  to  rid  himself  of  the 
wings  of  his  long  waterproof,  which  fell  forward  over  his 
hands.  Basil  Ransom  noticed  all  these  things,  and  noticed 
also,  opposite,  the  waiting  face  of  his  cousin,  fixed,  from 
her  sofa,  upon  the  closed  eyes  of  the  young  prophetess. 
He  grew  more  impatient  at  last,  not  of  the  delay  of  the 
edifying  voice  (though  some  time  had  elapsed),  but  of 
Tarrant's  grotesque  manipulations,  which  he  resented  as 
much  as  if  he  himself  had  felt  their  touch,  and  which 
seemed  a  dishonour  to  the  passive  maiden.  They  made 
him  nervous,  they  made  him  angry,  and  it  was  only  after- 
wards that  he  asked  himself  wherein  they  concerned  him, 
and  whether  even  a  carpet-bagger  hadn't  a  right  to  do  what 
he  pleased  with  his  daughter.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  when 
Verena  got  up  from  her  chair,  with  a  movement  which 
made  Tarrant  drop  into  the  background  as  if  his  part  were 
now  over.  She  stood  there  with  a  quiet  face,  serious  and 
sightless ;  then,  after  a  short  further  delay,  she  began  to 
speak. 

She  began  incoherently,  almost  inaudibly,  as  if  she  were 
talking  in  a  dream.  Ransom  could  not  understand  her  • 
he  thought  it  very  queer,  and  wondered  what  Doctor 
Prance  would  have  said.  '  She's  just  arranging  her  ideas, 
and  trying  to  get  in  report ;  she'll  come  out  all  right.' 


60  THE  BOSTONIANS.  VIIL 

This  remark  he  heard  dropped  in  a  low  tone  by  the 
mesmeric  healer;  'in  report'  was  apparently  Tarrant's 
version  of  en  rapport.  His  prophecy  was  verified,  and 
Verena  did  come  out,  after  a  little ;  she  came  out  with  a 
great  deal  of  sweetness — with  a  very  quaint  and  peculiar 
effect.  She  proceeded  slowly,  cautiously,  as  if  she  were 
listening  for  the  prompter,  catching,  one  by  one,  certain 
phrases  that  were  whispered  to  her  a  great  distance  off, 
behind  the  scenes  of  the  world.  Then  memory,  or  inspira- 
tion, returned  to  her,  and  presently  she  was  in  possession 
of  her  part.  She  played  it  with  extraordinary  simplicity 
and  grace ;  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  Ransom  became 
aware  that  the  whole  audience — Mrs.  Farrinder,  Miss 
Chancellor,  and  the  tough  subject  from  Mississippi — were 
under  the  charm.  I  speak  of  ten  minutes,  but  to  tell  the 
truth  the  young  man  lost  all  sense  of  time.  He  wondered 
afterwards  how  long  she  had  spoken ;  then  he  counted  that 
her  strange,  sweet,  crude,  absurd,  enchanting  improvisation 
must  have  lasted  half  an  hour.  It  was  not  what  she  said ; 
he  didn't  care  for  that,  he  scarcely  understood  it ;  he  could 
only  see  that  it  was  all  about  the  gentleness  and  goodness 
of  women,  and  how,  during  the  long  ages  of  history,  they 
had  been  trampled  under  the  iron  heel  of  man.  It  was 
about  their  equality — perhaps  even  (he  was  not  definitely 
conscious)  about  their  superiority.  It  was  about  their  day 
having  come  at  last,  about  the  universal  sisterhood,  about 
their  duty  to  themselves  and  to  each  other.  It  was  about 
such  matters  as  these,  and  Basil  Ransom  was  delighted  to 
observe  that  such  matters  as  these  didn't  spoil  it.  The 
effect  was  not  in  what  she  said,  though  she  said  some  such 
pretty  things,  but  in  the  picture  and  figure  of  the  half- 
bedizened  damsel  (playing,  now  again,  with  her  red  fan), 
the  visible  freshness  and  purity  of  the  little  effort.  When 
she  had  gained  confidence  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  their 
shining  softness  was  half  the  effect  of  her  discourse.  It 
was  full  of  school-girl  phrases,  of  patches  of  remembered 
eloquence,  of  childish  lapses  of  logic,  of  flights  of  fancy 
which  might  indeed  have  had  success  at  Topeka;  but 
Ransom  thought  that  if  it  had  been  much  worse  it  would 
have  been  quite  as  good,  for  the  argument,  the  doctrine, 


viii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  61 

had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was  simply  an 
intensely  personal  exhibition,  and  the  person  making  it 
happened  to  be  fascinating.  She  might  have  offended  the 
taste  of  certain  people — Ransom  could  imagine  that  there 
were  other  Boston  circles  in  which  she  would  be  thought 
pert ;  but  for  himself  all  he  could  feel  was  that  to  his  starved 
senses  she  irresistibly  appealed  He  was  the  stiffest  of 
conservatives,  and  his  mind  was  steeled  against  the  inanities 
she  uttered — the  rights  and  wrongs  of  women,  the  equality 
of  the  sexes,  the  hysterics  of  conventions,  the  further 
stultification  of  the  suffrage,  the  prospect  of  conscript 
mothers  in  the  national  Senate.  It  made  no  difference ; 
she  didn't  mean  it,  she  didn't  know  what  she  meant,  she 
had  been  stuffed  with  this  trash  by  her  father,  and  she 
was  neither  more  nor  less  willing  to  say  it  than  to  say 
anything  else ;  for  the  necessity  of  her  nature  was  not  to 
make  converts  to  a  ridiculous  cause,  but  to  emit  those 
charming  notes  of  her  voice,  to  stand  in  those  free  young 
attitudes,  to  shake  her  braided  locks  like  a  naiad  rising 
from  the  waves,  to  please  every  one  who  came  near  her, 
and  to  be  happy  that  she  pleased.  I  know  not  whether 
Ransom  was  aware  of  the  bearings  of  this  interpretation, 
which  attributed  to  Miss  Tarrant  a  singular  hollowness  of 
character ;  he  contented  himself  with  believing  that  she  was 
as  innocent  as  she  was  lovely,  and  with  regarding  her  as  a 
vocalist  of  exquisite  faculty,  condemned  to  sing  bad  music. 
How  prettily,  indeed,  she  made  some  of  it  sound ! 

'  Of  course  I  only  speak  to  women — to  my  own  dear 
sisters ;  I  don't  speak  to  men,  for  I  don't  expect  them  to 
like  what  I  say.  They  pretend  to  admire  us  very  much, 
but  I  should  like  them  to  admire  us  a  little  less  and  to 
trust  us  a  little  more.  I  don't  know  what  we  have  ever 
done  to  them  that  they  should  keep  us  out  of  everything. 
We  have  trusted  them  too  much,  and  I  think  the  time  has 
come  now  for  us  to  judge  them,  and  say  that  by  keeping 
us  out  we  don't  think  they  have  done  so  well.  When  I 
look  around  me  at  the  world,  and  at  the  state  that  men  have 
brought  it  to,  I  confess  I  say  to  myself,  "Well,  if  women 
had  fixed  it  this  way  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  would 
think  of  it !"  When  I  see  the  dreadful  misery  of  mankind 


62  THE  BOSTONIANS. 


and  think  of  the  suffering  of  which  at  any  hour,  at  any 
moment,  the  world  is  full,  I  say  that  if  this  is  the  best  they 
can  do  by  themselves,  they  had  better  let  us  come  in  a 
little  and  see  what  we  can  do.  We  couldn't  possibly  make 
it  worse,  could  we  ?  If  we  had  done  only  this,  we  shouldn't 
boast  of  it.  Poverty,  and  ignorance,  and  crime ;  disease, 
and  wickedness,  and  wars  !  Wars,  always  more  wars,  and 
always  more  and  more.  Blood,  blood  —  the  world  is 
drenched  with  blood  !  To  kill  each  other,  with  all  sorts  of 
expensive  and  perfected  instruments,  that  is  the  most 
brilliant  thing  they  have  been  able  to  invent.  It  seems  to 
me  that  we  might  stop  it,  we  might  invent  something  better. 
The  cruelty — the  cruelty ;  there  is  so  much,  so  much ! 
Why  shouldn't  tenderness  come  in  ?  Why  should  our 
woman's  hearts  be  so  full  of  it,  and  all  so  wasted  and 
withered,  while  armies  and  prisons  and  helpless  miseries 
grow  greater  all  the  while  ?  I  am  only  a  girl,  a  simple 
American  girl,  and  of  course  I  haven't  seen  much,  and 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  life  that  I  don't  know  anything 
about.  But  there  are  some  things  I  feel — it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  been  born  to  feel  them ;  they  are  in  my  ears  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night  and  before  my  face  in  the  visions 
of  the  darkness.  It  is  what  the  great  sisterhood  of  women 
might  do  if  they  should  all  join  hands,  and  lift  up  their 
voices  above  the  brutal  uproar  of  the  world,  in  which  it  is 
so  hard  for  the  plea  of  mercy  or  of  justice,  the  moan  of 
weakness  and  suffering,  to  be  heard.  We  should  quench  it, 
we  should  make  it  still,  and  the  sound  of  our  lips  would 
become  the  voice  of  universal  peace !  For  this  we  must 
trust  one  another,  we  must  be  true  and  gentle  and  kind. 
We  must  remember  that  the  world  is  ours  too,  ours — little 
as  we  have  ever  had  to  say  about  anything ! — and  that  the 
question  is  not  yet  definitely  settled  whether  it  shall  be  a 
place  of  injustice  or  a  place  of  love !' 

It  was  with  this  that  the  young  lady  finished  her  har- 
angue, which  was  not  followed  by  her  sinking  exhausted 
into  her  chair  or  by  any  of  the  traces  of  a  laboured  climax. 
She  only  turned  away  slowly  towards  her  mother,  smiling 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  whole  room,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
single  person,  without  a  flush  in  her  whiteness,  or  the  need 


VHI.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  63 

of  drawing  a  longer  breath.  The  performance  had  evi- 
dently been  very  easy  to  her,  and  there  might  have  been  a 
kind  of  impertinence  in  her  air  of  not  having  suffered  from 
an  exertion  which  had  wrought  so  powerfully  on  every  one 
else.  Ransom  broke  into  a  genial  laugh,  which  he  instantly 
swallowed  again,  at  the  sweet  grotesqueness  of  this  virginal 
creature's  standing  up  before  a  company  of  middle-aged 
people  to  talk  to  them  about  ( love,'  the  note  on  which  she 
had  closed  her  harangue.  It  was  the  most  charming  touch 
in  the  whole  thing,  and  the  most  vivid  proof  of  her  in- 
nocence. She  had  had  immense  success,  and  Mrs.  Tarrant, 
as  she  took  her  into  her  arms  and  kissed  her,  was  certainly 
able  to  feel  that  the  audience  was  not  disappointed.  They 
were  exceedingly  affected;  they  broke  into  exclamations 
and  murmurs.  Selah  Tarrant  went  on  conversing  ostenta- 
tiously with  his  neighbours,  slowly  twirling  his  long  thumbs 
and  looking  up  at  the  cornice  again,  as  if  there  could  be 
nothing  in  the  brilliant  manner  in  which  his  daughter  had 
acquitted  herself  to  surprise  him,  who  had  heard  her  when 
she  was  still  more  remarkable,  and  who,  moreover,  re- 
membered that  the  affair  was  so  impersonal.  Miss  Birdseye 
looked  round  at  the  company  with  dim  exultation ;  her 
large  mild  cheeks  were  shining  with  unwiped  tears. 
Young  Mr.  Pardon  remarked,  in  Ransom's  hearing,  that  he 
knew  parties  who,  if  they  had  been  present,  would  want  to 
engage  Miss  Verena  at  a  high  figure  for  the  winter 
campaign.  And  Ransom  heard  him  add  in  a  lower  tone  : 
'  There's  money  for  some  one  in  that  girl ;  you  see  if  she 
don't  have  quite  a  run  ! '  As  for  our  Mississippian  he  kept 
his  agreeable  sensation  for  himself,  only  wondering  whether 
he  might  not  ask  Miss  Birdseye  to  present  him  to  the 
heroine  of  the  evening.  Not  immediately,  of  course,  for 
the  young  man  mingled  with  his  Southern  pride  a  shyness 
which  often  served  all  the  purpose  of  humility.  He  was 
aware  how  much  he  was  an  outsider  in  such  a  house  as 
that,  and  he  was  ready  to  wait  for  his  coveted  satisfaction 
till  the  others,  who  all  hung  together,  should  have  given  her 
the  assurance  of  an  approval  which  she  would  value,  natu- 
rally, more  than  anything  he  could  say  to  her.  This 
episode  had  imparted  animation  to  the  assembly ;  a  certain 


64  THE  BOSTONIANS.  vin. 

gaiety,  even,  expressed  in  a  higher  pitch  of  conversation, 
seemed  to  float  in  the  heated  air.  People  circulated  more 
freely,  and  Verena  Tarrant  was  presently  hidden  from 
Ransom's  sight  by  the  close -pressed  ranks  of  the  new 
friends  she  had  made.  'Well,  I  never  heard  it  put  that 
way  !'  Ransom  heard  one  of  the  ladies  exclaim;  to  which 
another  replied  that  she  wondered  one  of  their  bright 
women  hadn't  thought  of  it  before.  '  Well,  it  is  a  gift,  and 
no  mistake,'  and  '  Well,  they  may  call  it  what  they  please, 
it's  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  it ' — these  genial  tributes  fell  from 
the  lips  of  a  pair  of  ruminating  gentlemen.  It  was  affirmed 
within  Ransom's  hearing  that  if  they  had  a  few  more  like 
that  the  matter  would  soon  be  fixed ;  and  it  was  rejoined 
that  they  couldn't  expect  to  have  a  great  many — the  style 
was  so  peculiar.  It  was  generally  admitted  that  the  style 
was  peculiar,  but  Miss  Tarrant's  peculiarity  was  the  ex- 
planation of  her  success. 


IX. 

RANSOM  approached  Mrs.  Farrinder  again,  who  had 
remained  on  her  sofa  with  Olive  Chancellor ;  and  as  she 
turned  her  face  to  him  he  saw  that  she  had  felt  the  universal 
contagion.  Her  keen  eye  sparkled,  there  was  a  flush  on 
her  matronly  cheek,  and  she  had  evidently  made  up  her 
mind  what  line  to  take.  Olive  Chancellor  sat  motionless ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor  with  the  rigid,  alarmed 
expression  of  her  moments  of  nervous  diffidence ;  she  gave 
no  sign  of  observing  her  kinsman's  approach.  He  said 
something  to  Mrs.  Farrinder,  something  that  imperfectly 
represented  his  admiration  of  Verena ;  and  this  lady  replied 
with  dignity  that  it  was  no  wonder  the  girl  spoke  so  well 
— she  spoke  in  such  a  good  cause.  '  She  is  very  grace- 
ful, has  a  fine  command  of  language ;  her  father  says  it's  a 
natural  gift.'  Ransom  saw  that  he  should  not  in  the  least 
discover  Mrs.  Farrinder's  real  opinion,  and  her  dissimula- 
tion added  to  his  impression  that  she  was  a  woman  with  a 
policy.  It  was  none  of  his  business  whether  in  her  heart 
she  thought  Verena  a  parrot  or  a  genius ;  it  was  perceptible 
to  him  that  she  saw  she  would  be  effective,  would  help  the 
cause.  He  stood  almost  appalled  for  a  moment,  as  he  said 
to  himself  that  she  would  take  her  up  and  the  girl  would 
be  ruined,  would  force  her  note  and  become  a  screamer. 
But  he  quickly  dodged  this  vision,  taking  refuge  in  a 
mechanical  appeal  to  his  cousin,  of  whom  he  inquired  how 
she  liked  Miss  Verena.  Olive  made  no  answer  ;  her  head 
remained  averted,  she  bored  the  carpet  with  her  conscious 
eyes.  Mrs.  Farrinder  glanced  at  her  askance,  and  then 
said  to  Ransom  serenely : 

'  You  praise  the  grace  of  your  Southern  ladies,  but  you 
have  had  to  come  North  to  see  a  human  gazelle.     Miss 

F 


66  THE  BOSTONIANS.  ix. 

Tarrant  is  of  the  best  New  England  stock — what  /  call  the 
best!' 

'  Tm  sure  from  what  I  have  seen  of  the  Boston  ladies, 
no  manifestation  of  grace  can  excite  my  surprise,'  Ransom 
rejoined,  looking,  with  his  smile,  at  his  cousin. 

'She  has  been  powerfully  affected,'  Mrs.  Farrinder 
explained,  very  slightly  dropping  her  voice,  as  Olive, 
apparently,  still  remained  deaf. 

Miss  Birdseye  drew  near  at  this  moment;  she  wanted 
to  know  if  Mrs.  Farrinder  didn't  want  to  express  some 
acknowledgment,  on  the  part  of  the  company  at  large,  for 
the  real  stimulus  Miss  Tarrant  had  given  them.  Mrs. 
Farrinder  said :  Oh  yes,  she  would  speak  now  with 
pleasure ;  only  she  must  have  a  glass  of  water  first.  Miss 
Birdseye  replied  that  there  was  some  coming  in  a  moment; 
one  of  the  ladies  had  asked  for  it,  and  Mr.  Pardon  had 
just  stepped  down  to  draw  some.  Basil  took  advantage  of 
this  intermission  to  ask  Miss  Birdseye  if  she  would  give 
him  the  great  privilege  of  an  introduction  to  Miss  Verena. 
'  Mrs.  Farrinder  will  thank  her  for  the  company,'  he  said, 
laughing,  'bul  she  won't  thank  her  for  me.' 

Miss  Birdseye  manifested  the  greatest  disposition  to 
oblige  him ;  she  was  so  glad  he  had  been  impressed.  She 
was  proceeding  to  lead  him  toward  Miss  Tarrant  when 
Olive  Chancellor  rose  abruptly  from  her  chair  and  laid  her 
hand,  with  an  arresting  movement,  on  the  arm  of  her 
hostess.  She  explained  to  her  that  she  must  go,  that  she 
was  not  very  well,  that  her  carriage  was  there ;  also  that 
she  hoped  Miss  Birdseye,  if  it  was  not  asking  too  much, 
would  accompany  her  to  the  door. 

'  Well,  you  are  impressed  too,'  said  Miss  Birdseye, 
looking  at  her  philosophically.  *  It  seems  as  if  no  one 
had  escaped.' 

Ransom  was  disappointed ;  he  saw  he  was  going  to  be 
taken  away,  and,  before  he  could  suppress  it,  an  exclama- 
tion burst  from  his  lips — the  first  exclamation  he  could 
think  of  that  would  perhaps  check  his  cousin's  retreat : 
'  Ah,  Miss  Olive,  are  you  going  to  give  up  Mrs.  Farrinder?' 

At  this  Miss  Olive  looked  at  him,  showed  him  an 
extraordinary  face,  a  face  he  scarcely  understood  or  even 


ix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  67 

recognised.  It  was  portentously  grave,  the  eyes  were 
enlarged,  there  was  a  red  spot  in  each  of  the  cheeks,  and 
as  directed  to  him,  a  quick,  piercing  question,  a  kind  of 
leaping  challenge,  in  the  whole  expression.  He  could  only 
answer  this  sudden  gleam  with  a  stare,  and  wonder  afresh 
what  trick  his  Northern  kinswoman  was  destined  to  play 
him.  Impressed  too  ?  He  should  think  he  had  been  ! 
Mrs.  Farrinder,  who  was  decidedly  a  woman  of  the  world, 
came  to  his  assistance,  or  to  Miss  Chancellor's,  and  said 
she  hoped  very  much  Olive  wouldn't  stay — she  felt  these 
things  too  much.  'If  you  stay,  I  won't  speak,'  she 
added;  'I  should  upset  you  altogether.'  And  then  she 
continued,  tenderly,  for  so  preponderantly  intellectual  a 
nature :  '  When  women  feel  as  you  do,  how  can  I  doubt 
that  we  shall  come^put  all  right?' 

'  Oh,  we  shall  come  out  all  right,  I  guess,'  murmured 
Miss  Birdseye. 

'  But  you  must  remember  Beacon  Street,'  Mrs.  Farrinder 
subjoined.  '  You  must  take  advantage  of  your  position — 
you  must  wake  up  the  Back  Bay  ! ' 

'  I'm  sick  of  the  Back  Bay ! '  said  Olive  fiercely ;  and 
she  passed  to  the  door  with  Miss  Birdseye,  bidding  good- 
bye to  no  one.  She  was  so  agitated  that,  evidently,  she 
could  not  trust  herself,  and  there  was  nothing  for  Ransom 
but  to  follow.  At  the  door  of  the  room,  however,  he  was 
checked  by  a  sudden  pause  on  the  part  of  the  two  ladies : 
Olive  stopped  and  stood  there  hesitating.  She  looked 
round  the  room  and  spied  out  Verena,  where  she  sat  with 
her  mother,  the  centre  of  a  gratified  group  ;  then,  throwing 
back  her  head  with  an  air  of  decision,  she  crossed  over  to 
her.  Ransom  said  to  himself  that  now,  perhaps,  was  his 
chance,  and  he  quickly  accompanied  Miss  Chancellor. 
The  little  knot  of  reformers  watched  her  as  she  arrived ; 
their  faces  expressed  a  suspicion  of  her  social  importance, 
mingled  with  conscientious  scruples  as  to  whether  it  were 
right  to  recognise  it.  Verena  Tarrant  saw  that  she  was 
the  object  of  this  manifestation,  and  she  got  up  to  meet 
the  lady  whose  approach  was  so  full  of  point.  Ransom 
perceived,  however,  or  thought  he  perceived,  that  she 
recognised  nothing  ;  she  had  no  suspicions  of  social  import- 


68  THE  BOSTONIANS.  ix. 

ance.  Yet  she  smiled  with  all  her  radiance,  as  she  looked 
from  Miss  Chancellor  to  him;  smiled  because  she  liked 
to  smile,  to  please,  to  feel  her  success — or  was  it  because 
she  was  a  perfect  little  actress,  and  this  was  part  of  her 
training?  She  took  the  hand  that  Olive  put  out  to  her; 
the  others,  rather  solemnly,  sat  looking  up  from  their  chairs. 

'  You  don't  know  me,  but  I  want  to  know  you,'  Olive 
said.  '  I  can  thank  you  now.  Will  you  come  and  see  me?' 

'Oh  yes;  where  do  you  live?'  Verena  answered,  in 
the  tone  of  a  girl  for  whom  an  invitation  (she  hadn't  so 
many)  was  always  an  invitation. 

Miss  Chancellor  syllabled  her  address,  and  Mrs.  Tarrant 
came  forward,  smiling.  'I  know  about  you,  Miss  Chan- 
cellor. I  guess  your  father  knew  my  father — Mr.  Green- 
street.  Verena  will  be  very  glad  to  visit  you.  We  shall 
be  very  happy  to  see  you  in  our  home.' 

Basil  Ransom,  while  the  mother  spoke,  wanted  to  say 
something  to  the  daughter,  who  stood  there  so  near  him, 
but  he  could  think  of  nothing  that  would  do;  certain 
words  that  came  to  him,  his  Mississippi  phrases,  seemed 
patronising  and  ponderous.  Besides,  he  didn't  wish  to 
assent  to  what  she  had  said ;  he  wished  simply  to  tell  her 
she  was  delightful,  and  it  was  difficult  to  mark  that  differ- 
ence. So  he  only  smiled  at  her  in  silence,  and  she  smiled 
back  at  him — a  smile  that  seemed  to  him  quite  for  himself. 

*  Where  do  you  live?'  Olive  asked;  and  Mrs.  Tarrant 
replied  that  they  lived  at  Cambridge,  and  that  the  horse- 
cars  passed  just  near  their  door.  Whereupon  Olive  insisted 
'  Will  you  come  very  soon  ? '  and  Verena  said,  Oh  yes,  she 
would  come  very  soon,  and  repeated  the  number  in  Charles 
Street,  to  show  that  she  had  taken  heed  of  it.  This  was 
done  with  childlike  good  faith.  Ransom  saw  that  she 
would  come  and  see  any  one  who  would  ask  her  like  that, 
and  he  regretted  for  a  minute  that  he  was  not  a  Boston 
lady,  so  that  he  might  extend  to  her  such  an  invitation. 
Olive  Chancellor  held  her  hand  a  moment  longer,  looked 
at  her  in  farewell,  and  then,  saying,  '  Come,  Mr.  Ransom/ 
drew  him  out  of  the  room.  In  the  hall  they  met  Mr. 
Pardon,  coming  up  from  the  lower  regions  with  a  jug  of 
water  and  a  tumbler.  Miss  Chancellor's  hackney-coach 


ix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  69 

was  there,  and  when  Basil  had  put  her  into  it  she  said  to 
him  that  she  wouldn't  trouble  him  to  drive  with  her — his 
hotel  was  not  near  Charles  Street.  He  had  so  little  desire 
to  sit  by  her  side — he  wanted  to  smoke — that  it  was  only 
after  the  vehicle  had  rolled  off  that  he  reflected  upon  her 
coolness,  and  asked  himself  why  the  deuce  she  had  brought 
him  away.  She  was  a  very  odd  cousin,  was  this  Boston 
cousin  of  his.  He  stood  there  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
light  in  Miss  Birdseye's  windows  and  greatly  minded  to 
re-enter  the  house,  now  he  might  speak  to  the  girl.  But 
he  contented  himself  with  the  memory  of  her  smile,  and 
turned  away  with  a  sense  of  relief,  after  all,  at  having  got 
out  of  such  wild  company,  as  well  as  with  (in  a  different 
order)  a  vulgar  consciousness  of  being  very  thirsty. 


X. 

VERENA  TARRANT  came  in  the  very  next  day  from  Cam- 
bridge to  Charles  Street;  that  quarter  of  Boston  is  in 
direct  communication  with  the  academic  suburb.  It  hardly 
seemed  direct  to  poor  Verena,  perhaps,  who,  in  the  crowded 
street-car  which  deposited  her  finally  at  Miss  Chancellor's 
door,  had  to  stand  up  all  the  way,  half  suspended  by  a 
leathern  strap  from  the  glazed  roof  of  the  stifling  vehicle, 
like  some  blooming  cluster  dangling  in  a  hothouse.  She 
was  used,  however,  to  these  perpendicular  journeys,  and 
though,  as  we  have  seen,  she  was  not  inclined  to  accept 
without  question  the  social  arrangements  of  her  time,  it 
never  would  have  occurred  to  her  to  criticise  the  railways 
of  her  native  land.  The  promptness  of  her  visit  to  Olive 
Chancellor  had  been  an  idea  of  her  mother's,  and  Verena 
listened  open-eyed  while  this  lady,  in  the  seclusion  of  the 
little  house  in  Cambridge,  while  Selah  Tarrant  was  '  off,' 
as  they  said,  with  his  patients,  sketched  out  a  line  of 
conduct  for  her.  The  girl  was  both  submissive  and  un- 
worldly, and  she  listened  to  her  mother's  enumeration  of 
the  possible  advantages  of  an  intimacy  with  Miss  Chancellor 
as  she  would  have  listened  to  any  other  fairy-tale.  It  was 
still  a  part  of  the  fairy-tale  when  this  zealous  parent  put 
on  with  her  own  hands  Verena's  smart  hat  and  feather, 
buttoned  her  little  jacket  (the  buttons  were  immense  and 
gilt),  and  presented  her  with  twenty  cents  to  pay  her  car- 
fare. 

There  was  never  any  knowing  in  advance  how  Mrs. 
Tarrant  would  take  a  thing,  and  even  Verena,  who,  filially, 
was  much  less  argumentative  than  in  her  civic  and,  as  it 
were,  public  capacity,  had  a  perception  that  her  mother 
was  queer.  She  was  queer,  indeed — a  flaccid,  relaxed, 


x.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  71 

unhealthy,  whimsical  woman,  who  still  had  a  capacity  to 
cling.  What  she  clung  to  was  '  society,'  and  a  position  in 
the  world  which  a  secret  whisper  told  her  she  had  never 
had  and  a  voice  more  audible  reminded  her  she  was 
in  danger  of  losing.  To  keep  it,  to  recover  it,  to  recon- 
secrate it,  was  the  ambition  of  her  heart ;  this  was  one  of 
the  many  reasons  why  Providence  had  judged  her  worthy 
of  having  so  wonderful  a  child.  Verena  was  born  not  only 
to  lead  their  common  sex  out  of  bondage,  but  to  remodel 
a  visiting-list  which  bulged  and  contracted  in  the  wrong 
places,  like  a  country-made  garment.  As  the  daughter  of 
Abraham  Greenstreet,  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  passed  her  youth 
in  the  first  Abolitionist  circles,  and  she  was  aware  how 
much  such  a  prospect  was  clouded  by  her  union  with  a 
young  man  who  had  begun  life  as  an  itinerant  vendor  of 
lead-pencils  (he  had  called  at  Mr.  Greenstreet's  door  in  the 
exercise  of  this  function),  had  afterwards  been  for  a  while 
a  member  of  the  celebrated  Cayuga  community,  where 
there  were  no  wives,  or  no  husbands,  or  something  of  that 
sort  (Mrs.  Tarrant  could  never  remember),  and  had  still 
later  (though  before  the  development  of  the  healing 
faculty)  achieved  distinction  in  the  spiritualistic  world. 
(He  was  an  extraordinarily  favoured  medium,  only  he  had 
had  to  stop  for  reasons  of  which  Mrs.  Tarrant  possessed 
her  version.)  Even  in  a  society  much  occupied  with  the 
effacement  of  prejudice  there  had  been  certain  dim  pre- 
sumptions against  this  versatile  being,  who  naturally  had 
not  wanted  arts  to  ingratiate  himself  with  Miss  Greenstreet, 
her  eyes,  like  his  own,  being  fixed  exclusively  on  the  future. 
The  young  couple  (he  was  considerably  her  elder)  had 
gazed  on  the  future  together  until  they  found  that  the  past 
had  completely  forsaken  them  and  that  the  present  offered 
but  a  slender  foothold.  Mrs.  Tarrant,  in  other  words,  in- 
curred the  displeasure  of  her  family,  who  gave  her  husband 
to  understand  that,  much  as  they  desired  to  remove  the 
shackles  from  the  slave,  there  were  kinds  of  behaviour 
which  struck  them  as  too  unfettered.  These  had  prevailed, 
to  their  thinking,  at  Cayuga,  and  they  naturally  felt  it  was 
no  use  for  him  to  say  that  his  residence  there  had  been 
(for  him — the  community  still  existed)  but  a  momentary 


72  THE  BOSTONIANS.  x. 

episode,  inasmuch  as  there  was  little  more  to  be  urged  for 
the  spiritual  picnics  and  vegetarian  camp-meetings  in  which 
the  discountenanced  pair  now  sought  consolation. 

Such  were  the  narrow  views  of  people  hitherto  supposed 
capable  of  opening  their  hearts  to  all  salutary  novelties,  but 
now  put  to  a  genuine  test,  as  Mrs.  Tarrant  felt.  Her 
husband's  tastes  rubbed  off  on  her  soft,  moist  moral  surface, 
and  the  couple  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  novelty,  in  which, 
occasionally,  the  accommodating  wife  encountered  the  fresh 
sensation  of  being  in  want  of  her  dinner.  Her  father  died, 
leaving,  after  all,  very  little  money;  he  had  spent  his 
modest  fortune  upon  the  blacks.  Selah  Tarrant  and  his 
companion  had  strange  adventures;  she  found  herself 
completely  enrolled  in  the  great  irregular  army  of  nostrum- 
mongers,  domiciled  in  humanitary  Bohemia.  It  absorbed 
her  like  a  social  swamp ;  she  sank  into  it  a  little  more  every 
day,  without  measuring  the  inches  of  her  descent.  Now 
she  stood  there  up  to  her  chin ;  it  may  probably  be  said  of 
her  that  she  had  touched  bottom.  When  she  went  to  Miss 
Birdseye's  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  re-entered  society. 
The  door  that  admitted  her  was  not  the  door  that  admitted 
some  of  the  others  (she  should  never  forget  the  tipped-up 
nose  of  Mrs.  Farrinder),  and  the  superior  portal  remained 
ajar,  disclosing  possible  vistas.  She  had  lived  with  long- 
haired men  and  short-haired  women,  she  had  contributed  a 
flexible  faith  and  an  irremediable  want  of  funds  to  a  dozen 
social  experiments,  she  had  partaken  of  the  comfort  of  a 
hundred  religions,  had  followed  innumerable  dietary  reforms, 
chiefly  of  the  negative  order,  and  had  gone  of  an  evening  to 
a  stance  or  a  lecture  as  regularly  as  she  had  eaten  her 
supper.  Her  husband  always  had  tickets  for  lectures;  in 
moments  of  irritation  at  the  want  of  a  certain  sequence  in 
their  career,  she  had  remarked  to  him  that  it  was  the  only 
thing  he  did  have.  The  memory  of  all  the  winter  nights 
they  had  tramped  through  the  slush  (the  tickets,  alas  !  were 
not  car-tickets)  to  hear  Mrs.  Ada  T.  P.  Foat  discourse  on 
the  *  Summer-land,'  came  back  to  her  with  bitterness. 
Selah  was  quite  enthusiastic  at  one  time  about  Mrs.  Foat, 
and  it  was  his  wife's  belief  that  he  had  been  '  associated ' 
with  her  (that  was  Selah's  expression  in  referring  to  such 


x.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  73 

episodes)  at  Cayuga.  The  poor  woman,  matrimonially,  had 
a  great  deal  to  put  up  with ;  it  took,  at  moments,  all  her 
belief  in  his  genius  to  sustain  her.  She  knew  that  he  was 
very  magnetic  (that,  in  fact,  was  his  genius),  and  she  felt 
that  it  was  his  magnetism  that  held  her  to  him.  He  had 
carried  her  through  things  where  she  really  didn't  know 
what  to  think;  there  were  moments  when  she  suspected 
that  she  had  lost  the  strong  moral  sense  for  which  the 
Greenstreets  were  always  so  celebrated. 

Of  course  a  woman  who  had  had  the  bad  taste  to  marry 
Selah  Tarrant  would  not  have  been  likely  under  any  cir- 
cumstances to  possess  a  very  straight  judgment ;  but  there 
is  no  doubt  that  this  poor  lady  had  grown  dreadfully  limp. 
She  had  blinked  and.  compromised  and  shuffled ;  she  asked 
herself  whether,  after  all,  it  was  any  more  than  natural  that 
she  should  have  wanted  to  help  her  husband,  in  those 
exciting  days  of  his  mediumship,  when  the  table,  some- 
times, wouldn't  rise  from  the  ground,  the  sofa  wouldn't  float 
through  the  air,  and  the  soft  hand  of  a  lost  loved  one  was 
not  so  alert  as  it  might  have  been  to  visit  the  circle.  Mrs. 
Tarrant's  hand  was  soft  enough  for  the  most  supernatural 
effect,  and  she  consoled  her  conscience  on  such  occasions 
by  reflecting  that  she  ministered  to  a  belief  in  immortality. 
She  was  glad,  somehow,  for  Verena's  sake,  that  they  had 
emerged  from  the  phase  of  spirit-intercourse ;  her  ambition 
for  her  daughter  took  another  form  than  desiring  that  she, 
too,  should  minister  to  a  belief  in  immortality.  Yet  among 
Mrs.  Tarrant's  multifarious  memories  these  reminiscences  of 
the  darkened  room,  the  waiting  circle,  the  little  taps  on 
table  and  wall,  the  little  touches  on  cheek  and  foot,  the 
music  in  the  air,  the  rain  of  flowers,  the  sense  of  something 
mysteriously  flitting,  were  most  tenderly  cherished.  She 
hated  her  husband  for  having  magnetised  her  so  that  she 
consented  to  certain  things,  and  even  did  them,  the  thought 
of  which  to-day  would  suddenly  make  her  face  burn  ;  hated 
him  for  the  manner  in  which,  somehow,  as  she  felt,  he  had 
lowered  her  social  tone ;  yet  at  the  same  time  she  admired 
him  for  an  impudence  so  consummate  that  it  had  ended  (in 
the  face  of  mortifications,  exposures,  failures,  all  the  misery 
of  a  hand-to-mouth  existence)  by  imposing  itself  on  her  as 


74  THE  BOSTONIANS.  x. 

a  kind  of  infallibility.  She  knew  he  was  an  awful  humbug, 
and  yet  her  knowledge  had  this  imperfection,  that  he  had 
never  confessed  it — a  fact  that  was  really  grand  when  one 
thought  of  his  opportunities  for  doing  so.  He  had  never 
allowed  that  he  wasn't  straight ;  the  pair  had  so  often  been 
in  the  position  of  the  two  augurs  behind  the  altar,  and  yet 
he  had  never  given  her  a  glance  that  the  whole  circle 
mightn't  have  observed.  Even  in  the  privacy  of  domestic 
intercourse  he  had  phrases,  excuses,  explanations,  ways  of 
putting  things,  which,  as  she  felt,  were  too  sublime  for  just 
herself;  they  were  pitched,  as  Selah's  nature  was  pitched, 
altogether  in  the  key  of  public  life. 

So  it  had  come  to  pass,  in  her  distended  and  demoralised 
conscience,  that  with  all  the  things  she  despised  in  her  life 
and  all  the  things  she  rather  liked,  between  being  worn  out 
with  her  husband's  inability  to  earn  a  living  and  a  kind  of 
terror  of  his  consistency  (he  had  a  theory  that  they  lived 
delightfully),  it  happened,  I  say,  that  the  only  very  definite 
criticism  she  made  of  him  to-day  was  that  he  didn't  know 
how  to  speak.  That  was  where  the  shoe  pinched — that 
was  where  Selah  was  slim.  He  couldn't  hold  the  attention 
of  an  audience,  he  was  not  acceptable  as  a  lecturer.  He  had 
plenty  of  thoughts,  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  fit  them 
into  each  other.  Public  speaking  had  been  a  Greenstreet 
tradition,  and  if  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  been  asked  whether  in 
her  younger  years  she  had  ever  supposed  she  should  marry 
a  mesmeric  healer,  she  would  have  replied  :  '  Well,  I  never 
thought  I  should  marry  a  gentleman  who  would  be  silent 
on  the  platform  !'  This  was  her  most  general  humiliation ; 
it  included  and  exceeded  every  other,  and  it  was  a  poor 
consolation  that  Selah  possessed  as  a  substitute — his  career 
as  a  healer,  to  speak  of  none  other,  was  there  to  prove  it — 
the  eloquence  of  the  hand.  The  Greenstreets  had  never 
set  much  store  on  manual  activity;  they  believed  in  the 
influence  of  the  lips.  It  may  be  imagined,  therefore,  with 
what  exultation,  as  time  went  on,  Mrs.  Tarrant  found  herself 
the  mother  of  an  inspired  maiden,  a  young  lady  from  whose 
lips  eloquence  flowed  in  streams.  The  Greenstreet  tradi- 
tion would  not  perish,  and  the  dry  places  of  her  life  would, 
perhaps,  be  plentifully  watered.  It  must  be  added  that,  of 


x.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  75 

late,  this  sandy  surface  had  been  irrigated,  in  moderation, 
from  another  source.  Since  Selah  had  addicted  himself  to 
the  mesmeric  mystery,  their  home  had  been  a  little  more 
what  the  home  of  a  Greenstreet  should  be.  He  had  '  con- 
siderable many '  patients,  he  got  about  two  dollars  a  sitting, 
and  he  had  effected  some  most  gratifying  cures.  A  lady 
in  Cambridge  had  been  so  much  indebted  to  him  that  she 
had  recently  persuaded  them  to  take  a  house  near  her,  in 
order  that  Doctor  Tarrant  might  drop  in  at  any  time.  He 
availed  himself  of  this  convenience — they  had  taken  so 
many  houses  that  another,  more  or  less,  didn't  matter — and 
Mrs.  Tarrant  began  to  feel  as  if  they  really  had  *  struck ' 
something. 

Even  to  Verena,  as  we  know,  she  was  confused  and 
confusing;  the  girl  had  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  to 
ascertain  the  principles  on  which  her  mother's  limpness 
was  liable  suddenly  to  become  rigid.  This  phenomenon 
occurred  when  the  vapours  of  social  ambition  mounted  to 
her  brain,  when  she  extended  an  arm  from  which  a 
crumpled  dressing-gown  fluttered  back  to  seize  the  passing 
occasion.  Then  she  surprised  her  daughter  by  a  volubility 
of  exhortation  as  to  the  duty  of  making  acquaintances,  and 
by  the  apparent  wealth  of  her  knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of 
good  society.  She  had,  in  particular,  a  way  of  explaining 
confidentially — and  in  her  desire  to  be  graphic  she  often 
made  up  the  oddest  faces — the  interpretation  that  you 
must  sometimes  give  to  the  manners  of  the  best  people, 
and  the  delicate  dignity  with  which  you  should  meet  them, 
which  made  Verena  wonder  what  secret  sources  of  informa- 
tion she  possessed.  Verena  took  life,  as  yet,  very  simply ; 
she  was  not  conscious  of  so  many  differences  of  social  com- 
plexion. She  knew  that  some  people  were  rich  and  others 
poor,  and  that  her  father's  house  had  never  been  visited  by 
such  abundance  as  might  make  one  ask  one's  self  whether 
it  were  right,  in  a  world  so  full  of  the  disinherited,  to  roll 
in  luxury.  But  except  when  her  mother  made  her  slightly 
dizzy  by  a  resentment  of  some  slight  that  she  herself  had 
never  perceived,  or  a  flutter  over  some  opportunity  that 
appeared  already  to  have  passed  (while  Mrs.  Tarrant  was 
looking  for  something  to  '  put  on '),  Verena  had  no  vivid 


76  THE  BOSTONIANS. 


sense  that  she  was  not  as  good  as  any  one  else,  for  no 
authority  appealing  really  to  her  imagination  had  fixed  the 
place  of  mesmeric  healers  in  the  scale  of  fashion.  It  was 
impossible  to  know  in  advance  how  Mrs.  Tarrant  would 
take  things.  Sometimes  she  was  abjectly  indifferent;  at 
others  she  thought  that  every  one  who  looked  at  her 
wished  to  insult  her.  At  moments  she  was  full  of 
suspicion  of  the  ladies  (they  were  mainly  ladies)  whom 
Selah  mesmerised ;  then  again  she  appeared  to  have  given 
up  everything  but  her  slippers  and  the  evening-paper  (from 
this  publication  she  derived  inscrutable  solace),  so  that  if 
Mrs.  Foat  in  person  had  returned  from  the  summer-land  (to 
which  she  had  some  time  since  taken  her  flight),  she  would  not 
have  disturbed  Mrs.  Tarrant's  almost  cynical  equanimity. 

It  was,  however,  in  her  social  subtleties  that  she  was 
most  beyond  her  daughter;  it  was  when  she  discovered 
extraordinary  though  latent  longings  on  the  part  of  people 
they  met  to  make  their  acquaintance,  that  the  girl  became 
conscious  of  how  much  she  herself  had  still  to  learn.  All 
her  desire  was  to  learn,  and  it  must  be  added  that  she 
regarded  her  mother,  in  perfect  good  faith,  as  a  wonderful 
teacher.  She  was  perplexed  sometimes  by  her  worldliness ; 
that,  somehow,  was  not  a  part  of  the  higher  life  which  every 
one  in  such  a  house  as  theirs  must  wish  above  all  things  to 
lead ;  and  it  was  not  involved  in  the  reign  of  justice,  which 
they  were  all  trying  to  bring  about,  that  such  a  strict  account 
should  be  kept  of  every  little  snub.  Her  father  seemed  to 
Verena  to  move  more  consecutively  on  the  high  plane; 
though  his  indifference  to  old-fashioned  standards,  his 
perpetual  invocation  of  the  brighter  day,  had  not  yet  led 
her  to  ask  herself  whether,  after  all,  men  are  more  dis- 
interested than  women.  Was  it  interest  that  prompted  her 
mother  to  respond  so  warmly  to  Miss  Chancellor,  to  say  to 
Verena,  with  an  air  of  knowingness,  that  the  thing  to  do 
was  to  go  in  and  see  her  immediately  ?  No  italics  can 
represent  the  earnestness  of  Mrs.  Tarrant's  emphasis.  Why 
hadn't  she  said,  as  she  had  done  in  former  cases,  that  if 
people  wanted  to  see  them  they  could  come  out  to  their 
home ;  that  she  was  not  so  low  down  in  the  world  as  not 
to  know  there  was  such  a  ceremony  as  leaving  cards  ? 


x.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  77 

When  Mrs.  Tarrant  began  on  the  question  of  ceremonies 
she  was  apt  to  go  far ;  but  she  had  waived  it  in  this  case ;  it 
suited  her  more  to  hold  that  Miss  Chancellor  had  been  very 
gracious,  that  she  was  a  most  desirable  friend,  that  she  had 
been  more  affected  than  any  one  by  Verena's  beautiful  out- 
pouring ;  that  she  would  open  to  her  the  best  saloons  in 
Boston ;  that  when  she  said  '  Come  soon '  she  meant  the 
very  next  day,  that  this  was  the  way  to  take  it,  anyhow  (one 
must  know  when  to  go  forward  gracefully);  and  that  in 
short  she,  Mrs.  Tarrant,  knew  what  she  was  talking  about. 

Verena  accepted  all  this,  for  she  was  young  enough  to 
enjoy  any  journey  in  a  horse-car,  and  she  was  ever-curious 
about  the  world  ;  she  only  wondered  a  little  how  her 
mother  knew  so  much  about  Miss  Chancellor  just  from 
looking  at  her  once.  What  Verena  had  mainly  observed  in 
the  young  lady  who  came  up  to  her  that  way  the  night 
before  was  that  she  was  rather  dolefully  dressed,  that  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  crying  (Verena  recognised  that 
look  quickly,  she  had  seen  it  so  much),  and  that  she  was 
in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  However,  if  she  was  as  remarkable 
as  her  mother  said,  one  would  very  soon  see  it ;  and  mean- 
while there  was  nothing  in  the  girl's  feeling  about  herself, 
in  her  sense  of  her  importance,  to  make  it  a  painful  effort 
for  her  to  run  the  risk  of  a  mistake.  She  had  no  particular 
feeling  about  herself;  she  only  cared,  as  yet,  for  outside 
things.  Even  the  development  of  her  '  gift '  had  not  made 
her  think  herself  too  precious  for  mere  experiments ;  she 
had  neither  a  particle  of  diffidence  nor  a  particle  of  vanity. 
Though  it  would  have  seemed  to  you  eminently  natural 
that  a  daughter  of  Selah  Tarrant  and  his  wife  should  be  an 
inspirational  speaker,  yet,  as  you  knew  Verena  better,  you 
would  have  wondered  immensely  how  she  came  to  issue 
from  such  a  pair.  Her  ideas  of  enjoyment  were  very 
simple ;  she  enjoyed  putting  on  her  new  hat,  with  its  re- 
dundancy of  feather,  and  twenty  cents  appeared  to  her  a 
very  large  sum. 


XI. 

'  I  WAS  certain  you  would  come — I  have  felt  it  all  day — 
something  told  me  !'  It  was  with  these  words  that  Olive 
Chancellor  greeted  her  young  visitor,  coming  to  her  quickly 
from  the  window,  where  she  might  have  been  waiting  for 
her  arrival.  Some  weeks  later  she  explained  to  Verena 
how  definite  this  prevision  had  been,  how  it  had  filled  her 
all  day  with  a  nervous  agitation  so  violent  as  to  be  painful. 
She  told  her  that  such  forebodings  were  a  peculiarity  of  her 
organisation,  that  she  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  them, 
that  she  had  to  accept  them ;  and  she  mentioned,  as  another 
example,  the  sudden  dread  that  had  come  to  her  the  evening 
before  in  the  carriage,  after  proposing  to  Mr.  Ransom  to  go 
with  her  to  Miss  Birdseye's.  This  had  been  as  strange  as 
it  had  been  instinctive,  and  the  strangeness,  of  course,  was 
what  must  have  struck  Mr.  Ransom ;  for  the  idea  that  he 
might  come  had  been  hers,  and  yet  she  suddenly  veered 
round.  She  couldn't  help  it ;  her  heart  had  begun  to  throb 
with  the  conviction  that  if  he  crossed  that  threshold  some 
harm  would  come  of  it  for  her.  She  hadn't  prevented  him, 
and  now  she  didn't  care,  for  now,  as  she  intimated,  she  had 
the  interest  of  Verena,  and  that  made  her  indifferent  to 
every  danger,  to  every  ordinary  pleasure.  By  this  time 
Verena  had  learned  how  peculiarly  her  friend  was  constituted, 
how  nervous  and  serious  she  was,  how  personal,  how  ex- 
clusive, what  a  force  of  will  she  had,  what  a  concentration 
of  purpose.  Olive  had  taken  her  up,  in  the  literal  sense  of 
the  phrase,  like  a  bird  of  the  air,  had  spread  an  extra- 
ordinary pair  of  wings,  and  carried  her  through  the  dizzying 
void  of  space.  Verena  liked  it,  for  the^most  part;  liked 
to  shoot  upward  without  an  effort  of  her  own  and  look  down 
upon  all  creation,  upon  all  history,  from  such  a  height. 


xi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  79 

From  this  first  interview  she  felt  that  she  was  seized,  and 
she  gave  herself  up,  only  shutting  her  eyes  a  little,  as  we  do 
whenever  a  person  in  whom  we  have  perfect  confidence 
proposes,  with  our  assent,  to  subject  us  to  some  sensation. 

*  I  want  to  know  you,'  Olive  said,  on  this  occasion  ;  '  I 
felt  that  I  must  last  night,  as  soon  as  I  heard  you  speak. 
You  seem  to  me  very  wonderful.  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  you.  I  think  we  ought  to  be  friends ;  so  I  just 
asked  you  to  come  to  me  straight  off,  without  preliminaries, 
and  I  believed  you  would  come.  It  is  so  right  that  you 
have  come,  and  it  proves  how  right  I  was.'  These  remarks 
fell  from  Miss  Chancellor's  lips  one  by  one,  as  she  caught 
her  breath,  with  the  tremor  that  was  always  in  her  voice, 
even  when  she  was  the  least  excited,  while  she  made  Verena 
sit  down  near  her  on  the  sofa,  and  looked  at  her  all  over  in 
a  manner  that  caused  the  girl  to  rejoice  at  having  put  on 
the  jacket  with  the  gilt  buttons.  It  was  this  glance  that 
was  the  beginning  ;  it  was  with  this  quick  survey,  omitting 
nothing,  that  Olive  took  possession  of  her.  '  You  are  very 
remarkable  j  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  remarkable  ! '  she 
went  on,  murmuring  the  words  as  if  she  were  losing  herself, 
becoming  inadvertent  in  admiration. 

Verena  sat  there  smiling,  without  a  blush,  but  with  a 
pure,  bright  look  which,  for  her,  would  always  make  protests 
unnecessary.  'Oh,  it  isn't  me,  you  know;  it's  something 
outside  !'  She  tossed  this  off  lightly,  as  if  she  were  in  the 
habit  of  saying  it,  and  Olive  wondered  whether  it  were  a 
sincere  disclaimer  or  only  a  phrase  of  the  lips.  The 
question  was  not  a  criticism,  for  she  might  have  been 
satisfied  that  the  girl  was  a  mass  of  fluent  catch-words  and 
yet  scarcely  have  liked  her  the  less.  It  was  just  as  she 
was  that  she  liked  her;  she  was  so  strange,  so  different 
from  the  girls  one  usually  met,  seemed  to  belong  to  some 
queer  gipsy -land  or  transcendental  Bohemia.  With  her 
bright,  vulgar  clothes,  her  salient  appearance,  she  might 
have  been  a  rope-dancer  or  a  fortune-teller ;  and  this  had 
the  immense  merit,  for  Olive,  that  it  appeared  to  make  her 
belong  to  the  '  people,'  threw  her  into  the  social  dusk  of 
that  mysterious  democracy  which  Miss  Chancellor  held  that 
the  fortunate  classes  know  so  little  about,  and  with  which  (in  a 


8o  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xi. 

future  possibly  very  near)  they  will  have  to  count.  More- 
over, the  girl  had  moved  her  as  she  had  never  been  moved, 
and  the  power  to  do  that,  from  whatever  source  it  came, 
was  a  force  that  one  must  admire.  Her  emotion  was  still 
acute,  however  much  she  might  speak  to  her  visitor  as  if 
everything  that  had  happened  seemed  to  her  natural ;  and 
what  kept  it,  above  all,  from  subsiding  was  her  sense  that 
she  found  here  what  she  had  been  looking  for  so  long — a 
friend  of  her  own  sex  with  whom  she  might  have  a  union 
of  soul.  It  took  a  double  consent  to  make  a  friendship, 
but  it  was  not  possible  that  this  intensely  sympathetic  girl 
would  refuse.  Olive  had  the  penetration  to  discover  in  a 
moment  that  she  was  a  creature  of  unlimited  generosity.  I 
know  not  what  may  have  been  the  reality  of  Miss  Chan- 
cellor's other  premonitions,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  in 
this  respect  she  took  Verena's  measure  on  the  spot.  This 
was  what  she  wanted  ;  after  that  the  rest  didn't  matter ; 
Miss  Tarrant  might  wear  gilt  buttons  from  head  to  foot, 
her  soul  could  not  be  vulgar. 

'Mother  told  me  I  had  better  come  right  in,'  said 
Verena,  looking  now  about  the  room,  very  glad  to  find 
herself  in  so  pleasant  a  place,  and  noticing  a  great  many 
things  that  she  should  like  to  see  in  detail. 

'Your  mother  saw  that  I  meant  what  I  said;  it  isn't 
everybody  that  does  me  the  honour  to  perceive  that.  She 
saw  that  I  was  shaken  from  head  to  foot.  I  could  only  say 
three  words — I  couldn't  have  spoken  more !  What  a  power 
— what  a  power,  Miss  Tarrant !' 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  a  power.  If  it  wasn't  a  power,  it 
couldn't  do  much  with  me  ! ' 

f  You  are  so  simple — so  much  like  a  child,'  Olive  Chan- 
cellor said.  That  was  the  truth,  and  she  wanted  to  say  it 
because,  quickly,  without  forms  or  circumlocutions,  it  made 
them  familiar.  She  wished  to  arrive  at  this ;  her  impati- 
ence was  such  that  before  the  girl  had  been  five  minutes 
in  the  room  she  jumped  to  her  point — inquired  of  her, 
interrupting  herself,  interrupting  everything  :  '  Will  you  be 
my  friend,  my  friend  of  friends,  beyond  every  one,  every- 
thing, forever  and  forever?'  Her  face  was  full  of  eagerness 
and  tenderness. 


xi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  81 

Verena  gave  a  laugh  of  clear  amusement,  without  a 
shade  of  embarrassment  or  confusion.  '  Perhaps  you  like 
me  too  much.' 

'  Of  course  I  like  you  too  much  !  When  I  like,  I  like 
too  much.  But  of  course  it's  another  thing,  your  liking 
me,'  Olive  Chancellor  added.  *  We  must  wait — we  must 
wait.  When  I  care  for  anything,  I  can  be  patient.'  She 
put  out  her  hand  to  Verena,  and  the  movement  was  at 
once  so  appealing  and  so  confident  that  the  girl  instinctively 
placed  her  own  in  it.  So,  hand  in  hand,  for  some  moments, 
these  two  young  women  sat  looking  at  each  other.  '  There 
is  so  much  I  want  to  ask  you,'  said  Olive. 

'  Well,  I  can't  say  much  except  when  father  has  worked 
on  me,'  Verena  answered,  with  an  ingenuousness  beside 
which  humility  would  have  seemed  pretentious. 

'  I  don't  care  anything  about  your  father/  Olive  Chan- 
cellor rejoined  very  gravely,  with  a  great  air  of  security. 

'  He  is  very  good,'  Verena  said  simply.  '  And  he's 
wonderfully  magnetic.' 

'  It  isn't  your  father,  and  it  isn't  your  mother ;  I  don't 
think  of  them,  and  it's  not  them  I  want.  It's  only  you — 
just  as  you  are.' 

Verena  dropped  her  eyes  over  the  front  of  her  dress. 
'  Just  as  she  was '  seemed  to  her  indeed  very  well. 

'Do  you  want  me  to  give  up ?'  she  demanded, 

smiling. 

Olive  Chancellor  drew  in  her  breath  for  an  instant,  like 
a  creature  in  pain ;  then,  with  her  quavering  voice,  touched 
with  a  vibration  of  anguish,  she  said  :  '  Oh,  how  can  I  ask 
you  to  give  up?  /will  give  up — I  will  give  up  everything  !' 

Filled  with  the  impression  of  her  hostess's  agreeable  in- 
terior, and  of  what  her  mother  had  told  her  about  Miss 
Chancellor's  wealth,  her  position  in  Boston  society,  Verena, 
in  her  fresh,  diverted  scrutiny  of  the  surrounding  objects, 
wondered  what  could  be  the  need  of  this  scheme  of  re- 
nunciation. Oh  no,  indeed,  she  hoped  she  wouldn't  give 
up — at  least  not  before  she,  Verena,  had  had  a  chance  to 
see.  She  felt,  however,  that  for  the  present  there  would  be 
no  answer  for  her  save  in  the  mere  pressure  of  Miss  Chan- 
cellor's eager  nature,  that  intensity  of  emotion  which  made 

G 


.82  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xi. 

her  suddenly  exclaim,  as  if  in  a  nervous  ecstasy  of 
anticipation,  '  But  we  must  wait !  Why  do  we  talk  of  this  ? 
We  must  wait !  All  will  be  right,'  she  added  more  calmly, 
with  great  sweetness. 

Verena  wondered  afterward  why  she  had  not  been  more 
afraid  of  her — why,  indeed,  she  had  not  turned  and  saved 
herself  by  darting  out  of  the  room.  But  it  was  not  in  this 
young  woman's  nature  to  be  either  timid  or  cautious ;  she 
had  as  yet  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  sentiment  of  fear. 
She  knew  too  little  of  the  world  to  have  learned  to  mistrust 
sudden  enthusiasms,  and  if  she  had  had  a  suspicion  it 
would  have  been  (in  accordance  with  common  worldly 
knowledge)  the  wrong  one — the  suspicion  that  such  a 
whimsical  liking  would  burn  itself  out.  She  could  not  have 
that  one,  for  there  was  a  light  in  Miss  Chancellor's  magni- 
fied face  which  seemed  to  say  that  a  sentiment,  with  her, 
might  consume  its  object,  might  consume  Miss  Chancellor, 
but  would  never  consume  itself.  Verena,  as  yet,  had  no 
sense  of  being  scorched ;  she  was  only  agreeably  warmed. 
She  also  had  dreamed  of  a  friendship,  though  it  was  not 
what  she  had  dreamed  of  most,  and  it  came  over  her  that 
this  was  the  one  which  fortune  might  have  been  keeping. 
She  never  held  back. 

'  Do  you  live  here  all  alone  ? '  she  asked  of  Olive. 

1 1  shouldn't  if  you  would  come  and  live  with  me  !' 

Even  this  really  passionate  rejoinder  failed  to  make 
Verena  shrink;  she  thought  it  so  possible  that  in  the  wealthy 
class  people  made  each  other  such  easy  proposals.  It  was 
a  part  of  the  romance,  the  luxury,  of  wealth ;  it  belonged  to 
the  world  of  invitations,  in  which  she  had  had  so  little 
share.  But  it  seemed  almost  a  mockery  when  she  thought 
of  the  little  house  in  Cambridge,  where  the  boards  were 
loose  in  the  steps  of  the  porch. 

'  I  must  stay  with  my  father  and  mother,'  she  said. 
'  And  then  I  have  my  work,  you  know.  That's  the  way  I 
must  live  now.' 

'Your  work?'  Olive  repeated,  not  quite  understanding. 

'  My  gift,'  said  Verena,  smiling. 

'  Oh  yes,  you  must  use  it.  That's  what  I  mean ;  you 
must  move  the  world  with  it;  it's  divine.' 


xi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  83 

It  was  so  much  what  she  meant  that  she  had  lain  awake 
all  night  thinking  of  it,  and  the  substance  of  her  thought 
was  that  if  she  could  only  rescue  the  girl  from  the  danger 
of  vulgar  exploitation,  could  only  constitute  herself  her  pro- 
tectress and  devotee,  the  two,  between  them,  might  achieve 
the  great  result.  Verena's  genius  was  a  mystery,  and  it 
might  remain  a  mystery ;  it  was  impossible  to  see  how  this 
charming,  blooming,  simple  creature,  all  youth  and  grace 
and  innocence,  got  her  extraordinary  powers  of  reflection. 
When  her  gift  was  not  in  exercise  she  appeared  anything 
but  reflective,  and  as  she  sat  there  now,  for  instance,  you 
would  never  have  dreamed  that  she  had  had  a  vivid  revela- 
tion. Olive  had  to  content  herself,  provisionally,  with 
saying  that  her  precious  faculty  had  come  to  her  just  as 
her  beauty  and  distinction  (to  Olive  she  was  full  of  that 
quality)  had  come ;  it  had  dropped  straight  from  heaven, 
without  filtering  through  her  parents,  whom  Miss  Chancellor 
decidedly  did  not  fancy.  Even  among  reformers  she  dis- 
criminated ;  she  thought  all  wise  people  wanted  great 
changes,  but  the  votaries  of  change  were  not  necessarily 
wise.  She  remained  silent  a  little,  after  her  last  remark, 
and  then  she  repeated  again,  as  if  it  were  the  solution  of 
everything,  as  if  it  represented  with  absolute  certainty  some 
immense  happiness  in  the  future — '  We  must  wait,  we  must 
wait !'  Verena  was  perfectly  willing  to  wait,  though  she 
did  not  exactly  know  what  they  were  to  wait  for,  and  the 
aspiring  frankness  of  her  assent  shone  out  of  her  face,  and 
seemed  to  pacify  their  mutual  gaze.  Olive  asked  her  in- 
numerable questions ;  she  wanted  to  enter  into  her  life.  It 
was  one  of  those  talks  which  people  remember  afterwards, 
in  which  every  word  has  been  given  and  taken,  and  in 
which  they  see  the  signs  of  a  beginning  that  was  to  be 
justified.  The  more  Olive  learnt  of  her  visitor's  life  the 
more  she  wanted  to  enter  into  it,  the  more  it  took  her  out 
of  herself.  Such  strange  lives  are  led  in  America,  she 
always  knew  that ;  but  this  was  queerer  than  anything  she 
had  dreamed  of,  and  the  queerest  part  was  that  the  girl 
herself  didn't  appear  to  think  it  queer.  She  had  been 
nursed  in  darkened  rooms,  and  suckled  in  the  midst  of 
manifestations ;  she  had  begun  to  c  attend  lectures,'  as  she 


84  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xi. 

said,  when  she  was  quite  an  infant,  because  her  mother  had 
no  one  to  leave  her  with  at  home.  She  had  sat  on  the 
knees  of  somnambulists,  and  had  been  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  by  trance-speakers ;  she  was  familiar  with  every  kind 
of  'cure,'  and  had  grown  up  among  lady-editors  of  news- 
papers advocating  new  religions,  and  people  who  disapproved 
of  the  marriage-tie.  Verena  talked  of  the  marriage-tie  as 
she  would  have  talked  of  the  last  novel — as  if  she  had 
heard  it  as  frequently  discussed;  and  at  certain  times, 
listening  to  the  answers  she  made  to  her  questions,  Olive 
Chancellor  closed  her  eyes  in  the  manner  of  a  person 
waiting  till  giddiness  passed.  Her  young  friend's  revela- 
tions actually  gave  her  a  vertigo ;  they  made  her  perceive 
everything  from  which  she  should  have  rescued  her.  Verena 
was  perfectly  uncontaminated,  and  she  would  never  be 
touched  by  evil ;  but  though  Olive  had  no  views  about  the 
marriage-tie  except  that  she  should  hate  it  for  herself — that 
particular  reform  she  did  not  propose  to  consider — she 
didn't  like  the  '  atmosphere '  of  circles  in  which  such  in- 
stitutions were  called  into  question.  She  had  no  wish  now 
to  enter  into  an  examination  of  that  particular  one; 
nevertheless,  to  make  sure,  she  would  just  ask  Verena 
whether  she  disapproved  of  it. 

( Well,  I  must  say,'  said  Miss  Tarrant,  'I  prefer  free 
unions.' 

Olive  held  her  breath  an  instant ;  such  an  idea  was  so 
disagreeable  to  her.  Then,  for  all  answer,  she  murmured, 
irresolutely,  '  I  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you  ! '  Yet  it 
seemed,  at  the  same  time,  that  Verena  needed  little  help, 
for  it  was  more  and  more  clear  that  her  eloquence,  when 
she  stood  up  that  way  before  a  roomful  of  people,  was 
literally  inspiration.  She  answered  all  her  friend's  questions 
with  a  good-nature  which  evidently  took  no  pains  to  make 
things  plausible,  an  effort  to  oblige,  not  to  please;  but, 
after  all,  she  could  give  very  little  account  of  herself.  This 
was  very  visible  when  Olive  asked  her  where  she  had  got 
her  *  intense  realisation '  of  the  suffering  of  women  ;  for  her 
address  at  Miss  Birdseye's  showed  that  she,  too  (like  Olive 
herself),  had  had  that  vision  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 
Verena  thought  a  moment,  as  if  to  understand  what  her  com- 


xi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  85 

panion  referred  to,  and  then  she  inquired,  always  smiling, 
where  Joan  of  Arc  had  got  her  idea  of  the  suffering  of 
France.  This  was  so  prettily  said  that  Olive  could  scarcely 
keep  from  kissing  her ;  she  looked  at  the  moment  as  if, 
like  Joan,  she  might  have  had  visits  from  the  saints.  Olive, 
of  course,  remembered  afterwards  that  it  had  not  literally 
answered  the  question;  and  she  also  reflected  on  some- 
thing that  made  an  answer  seem  more  difficult — the  fact 
that  the  girl  had  grown  up  among  lady -doctors,  lady- 
mediums,  lady-editors,  lady-preachers,  lady-healers,  women 
who,  having  rescued  themselves  from  a  passive  existence, 
could  illustrate  only  partially  the  misery  of  the  sex  at  large. 
It  was  true  that  they  might  have  illustrated  it  by  their  talk, 
by  all  they  had  '  been  through '  and  all  they  could  tell  a 
younger  sister ;  but  Olive  was  sure  that  Verena's  prophetic 
impulse  had  not  been  stirred  by  the  chatter  of  women 
(Miss  Chancellor  knew  that  sound  as  well  as  any  one);  it 
had  proceeded  rather  out  of  their  silence.  She  said  to  her 
visitor  that  whether  or  no  the  angels  came  down  to  her  in 
glittering  armour,  she  struck  her  as  the  only  person  she 
had  yet  encountered  who  had  exactly  the  same  tenderness, 
the  same  pity,  for  women  that  she  herself  had.  Miss 
Birdseye  had  something  of  it,  but  Miss  Birdseye  wanted 
passion,  wanted  keenness,  was  capable  of  the  weakest 
concessions.  Mrs.  Farrinder  was  not  weak,  of  course,  and 
she  brought  a  great  intellect  to  the  matter ;  but  she  was 
not  personal  enough — she  was  too  abstract.  Verena  was 
not  abstract;  she  seemed  to  have  lived  in  imagination 
through  all  the  ages.  Verena  said  she  did  think  she  had 
a  certain  amount  of  imagination;  she  supposed  she  couldn't 
be  so  effective  on  the  platform  if  she  hadn't  a  rich  fancy. 
Then  Olive  said  to  her,  taking  her  hand  again,  that  she 
wanted  her  to  assure  her  of  this — that  it  was  the  only  thing 
in  all  the  world  she  cared  for,  the  redemption  of  women, 
the  thing  she  hoped  under  Providence  to  give  her  life  to. 
Verena  flushed  a  little  at  this  appeal,  and  the  deeper  glow 
of  her  eyes  was  the  first  sign  of  exaltation  she  had  offered. 
'Oh  yes — I  want  to  give  my  life  !'  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
vibrating  voice ;  and  then  she  added  gravely,  '  I  want  to 
do  something  great !' 


86  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL 

'You  will,  you  will,  we  both  will!'  Olive  Chancellor 
cried,  in  rapture.  But  after  a  little  she  went  on :  'I 
wonder  if  you  know  what  it  means,  young  and  lovely  as 
you  are — giving  your  life  ! ' 

Verena  looked  down  for  a  moment  in  meditation. 

'Well,'  she  replied,  '  I  guess  I  have  thought  more  than 
I  appear.' 

'  Do  you  understand  German  ?  Do  you  know  "Faust"?' 
said  Olive.  '  "  Entsagen  so  list  du,  sollst  entsagenf" 

'  I  don't  know  German  ;  I  should  like  so  to  study  it ;  I 
want  to  know  everything.' 

'  We  will  work  at  it  together — we  will  study  everything,' 
Olive  almost  panted  ;  and  while  she  spoke  the  peaceful 
picture  hung  before  her  of  still  winter  evenings  under  the 
lamp,  with  falling  snow  outside,  and  tea  on  a  little  table, 
and  successful  renderings,  with  a  chosen  companion,  of 
Goethe,  almost  the  only  foreign  author  she  cared  about ; 
for  she  hated  the  writing  of  the  French,  in  spite  of  the 
importance  they  have  given  to  women.  Such  a  vision  as 
this  was  the  highest  indulgence  she  could  offer  herself;  she 
had  it  only  at  considerable  intervals.  It  seemed  as  if 
Verena  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  too,  for  her  face  kindled  still 
more,  and  she  said  she  should  like  that  ever  so  much.  At 
the  same  time  she  asked  the  meaning  of  the  German 
words. 

'  "  Thou  shalt  renounce,  refrain,  abstain  ! "  That's  the 
way  Bayard  Taylor  has  translated  them,'  Olive  answered. 

'  Oh,  well,  I  guess  I  can  abstain ! '  Verena  exclaimed, 
with  a  laugh.  And  she  got  up  rather  quickly,  as  if  by 
taking  leave  she  might  give  a  proof  of  what  she  meant. 
Olive  put  out  her  hands  to  hold  her,  and  at  this  moment 
one  of  the  portieres  of  the  room  was  pushed  aside,  while  a 
gentleman  was  ushered  in  by  Miss  Chancellor's  little 
parlour-maid. 


XII. 

VERENA  recognised  him;  she  had  seen  him  the  night 
before  at  Miss  Birdseye's,  and  she  said  to  her  hostess, 
'Now  I  must  go — you  have  got  another  caller!'  It  was 
Verena's  belief  that  in  the  fashionable  world  (like  Mrs. 
Farrinder,  she  thought  Miss  Chancellor  belonged  to  it — 
thought  that,  in  standing  there,  she  herself  was  in  it) — in 
the  highest  social  walks  it  was  the  custom  of  a  prior  guest 
to  depart  when  another  friend  arrived.  She  had  been  told 
at  people's  doors  that  she  could  not  be  received  because 
the  lady  of  the  house  had  a  visitor,  and  she  had  retired  on 
these  occasions  with  a  feeling  of  awe  much  more  than  a  sense 
of  injury.  They  had  not  been  the  portals  of  fashion,  but 
in  this  respect,  she  deemed,  they  had  emulated  such  bul- 
warks. Olive  Chancellor  offered  Basil  Ransom  a  greeting 
which  she  believed  to  be  consummately  lady-like,  and  which 
the  young  man,  narrating  the  scene  several  months  later  to 
Mrs.  Luna,  whose  susceptibilities  he  did  not  feel  himself 
obliged  to  consider  (she  considered  his  so  little),  described 
by  saying  that  she  glared  at  him.  Olive  had  thought  it 
very  possible  he  would  come  that  day  if  he  was  to  leave 
Boston;  though  she  was  perfectly  mindful' that  she  had 
given  him  no  encouragement  at  the  moment  they  separated. 
If  he  should  not  come  she  should  be  annoyed,  and  if  he 
should  come  she  should  be  furious  ;  she  was  also  sufficiently 
mindful  of  that.  But  she  had  a  foreboding  that,  of  the  two 
grievances,  fortune  would  confer  upon  her  only  the  less ; 
the  only  one  she  had  as  yet  was  that  he  had  responded  to 
her  letter — a  complaint  rather  wanting  in  richness.  If  he 
came,  at  any  rate,  he  would  be  likely  to  come  shortly  before 
dinner,  at  the  same  hour  as  yesterday.  He  had  now 
anticipated  this  period  considerably,  and  it  seemed  to  Miss 
Chancellor  that  he  had  taken  a  base  advantage  of  her, 


88  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xn. 

stolen  a  march  upon  her  privacy.  She  was  startled,  dis- 
concerted, but  as  I  have  said,  she  was  rigorously  lady-like. 
She  was  determined  not  again  to  be  fantastic,  as  she  had 
been  about  his  coming  to  Miss  Birdseye's.  The  strange 
dread  associating  itself  with  that  was  something  which,  she 
devoutly  trusted,  she  had  felt  once  for  all.  She  didn't 
know  what  he  could  do  to  her ;  he  hadn't  prevented,  on 
the  spot  though  he  was,  one  of  the  happiest  things  that  had 
befallen  her  for  so  long — this  quick,  confident  visit  of 
Verena  Tarrant  It  was  only  just  at  the  last  that  he  had 
come  in,  and  Verena  must  go  now ;  Olive's  detaining  hand 
immediately  relaxed  itself, 

It  is  to  be  feared  there  was  no  disguise  of  Ransom's 
satisfaction  at  finding  himself  once  more  face  to  face  with 
the  charming  creature  with  whom  he  had  exchanged  that 
final  speechless  smile  the  evening  before.  He  was  more 
glad  to  see  her  than  if  she  had  been  an  old  friend,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  had  suddenly  become  a  new  one. 
'  The  delightful  girl,'  he  said  to  himself;  '  she  smiles  at  me 
as  if  she  liked  me ! '  He  could  not  know  that  this  was 
fatuous,  that  she  smiled  so  at  every  one ;  the  first  time  she 
saw  people  she  treated  them  as  if  she  recognised  them. 
Moreover,  she  did  not  seat  herself  again  in  his  honour; 
she  let  it  be  seen  that  she  was  still  going.  The  three  stood 
there  together  in  the  middle  of  the  long,  characteristic 
room,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Olive  Chancellor 
chose  not  to  introduce  two  persons  who  met  under  her 
roof.  She  hated  Europe,  but  she  could  be  European  if  it 
were  necessary.  Neither  of  her  companions  had  an  idea 
that  in  leaving  them  simply  planted  face  to  face  (the  terror 
of  the  American  heart)  she  had  so  high  a  warrant ;  and 
presently  Basil  Ransom  felt  that  he  didn't  care  whether  he 
were  introduced  or  not,  for  the  greatness  of  an  evil  didn't 
matter  if  the  remedy  were  equally  great 

'  Miss  Tarrant  won't  be  surprised  if  I  recognise  her — if 
I  take  the  liberty  to  speak  to  her.  She  is  a  public 
character ;  she  must  pay  the  penalty  of  her  distinction.' 
These  words  he  boldly  addressed  to  the  girl,  with  his  most 
gallant  Southern  manner,  saying  to  himself  meanwhile  that 
she  was  prettier  still  by  daylight. 


XIT.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  89 

'Oh,  a  great  many  gentlemen  have  spoken  to  me,' 
Verena  said.  '  There  were  quite  a  number  at  Topeka — ' 
And  her  phrase  lost  itself  in  her  look  at  Olive,  as  if  she 
were  wondering  what  was  the  matter  with  her. 

'  Now,  I  am  afraid  you  are  going  the  very  moment  I 
appear,'  Ransom  went  on.  '  Do  you  know  that's  very  cruel 
to  me  ?  I  know  what  your  ideas  are — you  expressed  them 
last  night  in  such  beautiful  language;  of  course  you 
convinced  me.  I  am  ashamed  of  being  a  man ;  but  I  am, 
and  I  can't  help  it,  and  I'll  do  penance  any  way  you  may 
prescribe.  Must  she  go,  Miss  Olive?'  he  asked  of  his 
cousin.  'Do  you  flee  before  the  individual  male?'  And 
he  turned  again  to  Verena. 

This  young  lady  gave  a  laugh  that  resembled  speech  in 
liquid  fusion.  c  Oh  no ;  I  like  the  individual ! ' 

As  an  incarnation  of  a  '  movement,'  Ransom  thought 
her  more  and  more  singular,  and  he  wondered  how  she 
came  to  be  closeted  so  soon  with  his  kinswoman,  to  whom, 
only  a  few  hours  before,  she  had  been  a  complete  stranger. 
These,  however,  were  doubtless  the  normal  proceedings  of 
women.  He  begged  her  to  sit  down  again ;  he  was  sure 
Miss  Chancellor  would  be  sorry  to  part  with  her.  Verena, 
looking  at  her  friend,  not  for  permission,  but  for  sympathy, 
dropped  again  into  a  chair,  and  Ransom  waited  to  see  Miss 
Chancellor  do  the  same.  She  gratified  him  after  a  moment, 
because  she  could  not  refuse  without  appearing  to  put  a 
hurt  upon  Verena ;  but  it  went  hard  with  her,  and  she  was 
altogether  discomposed.  She  had  never  seen  any  one  so 
free  in  her  own  drawing-room  as  this  loud  Southerner, 
to  whom  she  had  so  rashly  offered  a  footing ;  he  extended 
invitations  to  her  guests  under  her  nose.  That  Verena 
should  do  as  he  asked  her  was  a  signal  sign  of  the  absence 
of  that  'home-culture'  (it  was  so  that  Miss  Chancellor 
expressed  the  missing  quality)  which  she  never  supposed 
the  girl  possessed :  fortunately,  as  it  would  be  supplied  to 
her  in  abundance  in  Charles  Street.  (Olive  of  course  held 
that  home-culture  was  perfectly  compatible  with  the  widest 
emancipation.)  It  was  with  a  perfectly  good  conscience 
that  Verena  complied  with  Basil  Ransom's  request ;  but  it 
took  her  quick  sensibility  only  a  moment  to  discover  that 


90  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xn. 

her  friend  was  not  pleased.  She  scarcely  knew  what  had 
ruffled  her,  but  at  the  same  instant  there  passed  before  her 
the  vision  of  the  anxieties  (of  this  sudden,  unexplained  sort, 
for  instance,  and  much  worse)  which  intimate  relations  with 
Miss  Chancellor  might  entail. 

'Now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  this,'  Basil  Ransom  said, 
leaning  forward  towards  Verena,  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  and  completely  oblivious  to  his  hostess.  '  Do  you 
really  believe  all  that  pretty  moonshine  you  talked  last 
night?  I  could  have  listened  to  you  for  another  hour; 
but  I  never  heard  such  monstrous  sentiments.  I  must 
protest — I  must,  as  a  calumniated,  misrepresented  man. 
Confess  you  meant  it  as  a  kind  of  rednctio  ad  absurdum — 
a  satire  on  Mrs.  Farrinder?'  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
the  freest  pleasantry,  with  his  familiar,  friendly  Southern 
cadence. 

Verena  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  grew  large.  '  Why, 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  believe  in  our  cause  ?' 

'Oh,  it  won't  do — it  won't  do!'  Ransom  went  on, 
laughing.  '  You  are  on  the  wrong  tack  altogether.  Do 
you  really  take  the  ground  that  your  sex  has  been  without 
influence  ?  Influence  ?  Why,  you  have  led  us  all  by  the 
nose  to  where  we  are  now !  Wherever  we  are,  it's  all 
you.  You  are  at  the  bottom  of  everything.' 

'  Oh  yes,  and  we  want  to  be  at  the  top,'  said  Verena. 

'  Ah,  the  bottom  is  a  better  place,  depend  on  it,  when 
from  there  you  move  the  whole  mass !  Besides,  you  are 
on  the  top  as  well  ;  you  are  everywhere,  you  are  everything. 
I  am  of  the  opinion  of  that  historical  character — wasn't  he 
some  king  ? — who  thought  there  was  a  lady  behind  every- 
thing. Whatever  it  was,  he  held,  you  have  only  to  look 
for  her;  she  is  the  explanation.  Well,  I  always  look  for 
her,  and  I  always  find  her  ;  of  course,  I  am  always  delighted 
to  do  so  ;  but  it  proves  she  is  the  universal  cause.  Now, 
you  don't  mean  to  deny  that  power,  the  power  of  setting 
men  in  motion.  You  are  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  wars.' 

'  Well,  I  am  like  Mrs.  Farrinder ;  I  like  opposition,' 
Verena  exclaimed,  with  a  happy  smile. 

'  That  proves,  as  I  say,  how  in  spite  of  your  expressions 
of  horror  you  delight  in  the  shock  of  battle.  What  do  you 


xii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  91 

say  to  Helen  of  Troy  and  the  fearful  carnage  she  excited  ? 
It  is  well  known  that  the  Empress  of  France  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  last  war  in  that  country.  And  as  for  our 
four  fearful  years  of  slaughter,  of  course  you  won't  deny 
that  there  the  ladies  were  the  great  motive  power.  The 
Abolitionists  brought  it  on,  and  were  not  the  Abolitionists 
principally  females?  Who  was  that  celebrity  that  was 
mentioned  last  night  ? — Eliza  P.  Moseley.  I  regard  Eliza 
as  the  cause  of  the  biggest  war  of  which  history  preserves 
the  record.' 

Basil  Ransom  enjoyed  his  humour  the  more  because 
Verena  appeared  to  enjoy  it;  and  the  look  with  which 
she  replied  to  him,  at  the  end  of  this  little  tirade,  '  Why, 
sir,  you  ought  to  take  the  platform  too;  we  might  go 
round  together  as  poison  and  antidote !' — this  made  him 
feel  that  he  had  convinced  her,  for  the  moment,  quite  as 
much  as  it  was  important  he  should.  In  Verena's  face, 
however,  it  lasted  but  an  instant — an  instant  after  she  had 
glanced  at  Olive  Chancellor,  who,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
intently  on  the  ground  (a  look  she  was  to  learn  to  know  so 
well),  had  a  strange  expression.  The  girl  slowly  got  up  ; 
she  felt  that  she  must  go.  She  guessed  Miss  Chancellor 
didn't  like  this  handsome  joker  (it  was  so  that  Basil  Ransom 
struck  her);  and  it  was  impressed  upon  her  ('in  time,'  as 
she  thought)  that  her  new  friend  would  be  more  serious 
even  than  she  about  the  woman -question,  serious  as  she 
had  hitherto  believed  herself  to  be. 

'  I  should  like  so  much  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  again/  Ransom  continued.  '  I  think  I  should  be  able 
to  interpret  history  for  you  by  a  new  light.' 

'  Well,  I  should  be  very  happy  to  see  you  in  my  home.' 
These  words  had  barely  fallen  from  Verena's  lips  (her 
mother  told  her  they  were,  in  general,  the  proper  thing  to 
say  when  people  expressed  such  a  desire  as  that ;  she  must 
not  let  it  be  assumed  that  she  would  come  first  to  them) — 
she  had  hardly  uttered  this  hospitable  speech  when  she  felt 
the  hand  of  her  hostess  upon  her  arm  and  became  aware 
that  a  passionate  appeal  sat  in  Olive's  eyes. 

'  You  will  just  catch  the  Charles  Street  car,'  that  young 
woman  murmured,  with  muffled  sweetness. 


92  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xii. 

Verena  did  not  understand  further  than  to  see  that  she 
ought  already  to  have  departed ;  and  the  simplest  response 
was  to  kiss  Miss  Chancellor,  an  act  which  she  briefly  per- 
formed. Basil  Ransom  understood  still  less,  and  it  was  a 
melancholy  commentary  on  his  contention  that  men  are 
not  inferior,  that  this  meeting  could  not  come,  however 
rapidly,  to  a  close  without  his  plunging  into  a  blunder 
which  necessarily  aggravated  those  he  had  already  made. 
He  had  been  invited  by  the  little  prophetess,  and  yet  he 
had  not  been  invited ;  but  he  did  not  take  that  up,  because 
he  must  absolutely  leave  Boston  on  the  morrow,  and,  be- 
sides, Miss  Chancellor  appeared  to  have  something  to  say 
to  it.  But  he  put  out  his  hand  to  Verena  and  said,  '  Good- 
bye, Miss  Tarrant;  are  we  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  you  in  New  York?  I  am  afraid  we  are  sadly 
sunk.' 

'  Certainly,  I  should  like  to  raise  my  voice  in  the  biggest 
city,'  the  girl  replied. 

'  Well,  try  to  come  on.  I  won't  refute  you.  It  would 
be  a  very  stupid  world,  after  all,  if  we  always  knew  what 
women  were  going  to  say.' 

Verena  was  conscious  of  the  approach  of  the  Charles 
Street  car,  as  well  as  of  the  fact  that  Miss  Chancellor  was 
in  pain ;  but  she  lingered  long  enough  to  remark  that  she 
could  see  he  had  the  old-fashioned  ideas — he  regarded 
woman  as  the  toy  of  man. 

'Don't  say  the  toy — say  the  joy!'  Ransom  exclaimed. 
*  There  is  one  statement  I  will  venture  to  advance  j  I  am 
quite  as  fond  of  you  as  you  are  of  each  other  ! ' 

'  Much  he  knows  about  that ! '  said  Verena,  with  a  side- 
long smile  at  Olive  Chancellor. 

For  Olive,  it  made  her  more  beautiful  than  ever ;  still, 
there  was  no  trace  of  this  mere  personal  elation  in  the 
splendid  sententiousness  with  which,  turning  to  Mr.  Ransom, 
she  remarked :  l  What  women  may  be,  or  may  not  be,  to 
each  other,  I  won't  attempt  just  now  to  say ;  but  what  the 
truth  may  be  to  a  human  soul,  I  think  perhaps  even  a 
woman  may  faintly  suspect !' 

*  The  truth  ?  My  dear  cousin,  your  truth  is  a  most  vain 
thing!' 


xn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  93 

'  Gracious  me ! '  cried  Verena  Tarrant ;  and  the  gay 
vibration  of  her  voice  as  she  uttered  this  simple  ejaculation 
was  the  last  that  Ransom  heard  of  her.  Miss  Chancellor 
swept  her  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  young  man  to  extract 
a  relish  from  the  ineffable  irony  with  which  she  uttered  the 
words  'even  a  woman.'  It  was  to  be  supposed,  on  general 
grounds,  that  she  would  reappear,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
the  glance  she  gave  him,  as  she  turned  her  back,  that  was 
an  earnest  of  this.  He  stood  there  a  moment,  wondering ; 
then  his  wonder  spent  itself  on  the  page  of  a  book  which, 
according  to  his  habit  at  such  times,  he  had  mechanically 
taken  up,  and  in  which  he  speedily  became  interested. 
He  read  it  for  five  minutes  in  an  uncomfortable-looking 
attitude,  and  quite  forgot  that  he  had  been  forsaken.  He 
was  recalled  to  this  fact  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Luna, 
arrayed  as  if  for  the  street,  and  putting  on  her  gloves  again 
— she  seemed  always  to  be  putting  on  her  gloves.  She 
wanted  to  know  what  in  the  world  he  was  doing  there  alone 
— whether  her  sister  had  not  been  notified. 

'  Oh  yes,'  said  Ransom,  '  she  has  just  been  with  me,  but 
she  has  gone  downstairs  with  Miss  Tarrant.' 

'And  who  in  the  world  is  Miss  Tarrant?' 

Ransom  was  surprised  that  Mrs.  Luna  should  not  know 
of  the  intimacy  of  the  two  young  ladies,  in  spite  of  the 
brevity  of  their  acquaintance,  being  already  so  great. 
But,  apparently,  Miss  Olive  had  not  mentioned  her  new 
friend.  'Well,  she  is  an  inspirational  speaker — the  most 
charming  creature  in  the  world  !' 

Mrs.  Luna  paused  in  her  manipulations,  gave  an  amazed, 
amused  stare,  then  caused  the  room  to  ring  with  her 
laughter.  'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  converted — 
already?' 

*  Converted  to  Miss  Tarrant,  decidedly.' 

'  You  are  not  to  belong  to  any  Miss  Tarrant ;  you  are 
to  belong  to  me,'  Mrs.  Luna  said,  having  thought  over  her 
Southern  kinsman  during  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  made 
up  her  mind  that  he  would  be  a  good  man  for  a  lone 
woman  to  know.  Then  she  added  :  '  Did  you  come  here 
to  meet  her — the  inspirational  speaker?' 

'  No ;  I  came  to  bid  your  sister  good-bye.' 


94  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xn. 

*  Are  you  really  going  ?  I  haven't  made  you  promise 
half  the  things  I  want  yet.  But  we  will  settle  that  in  New 
York.  How  do  you  get  on  with  Olive  Chancellor?'  Mrs. 
Luna  continued,  making  her  points,  as  she  always  did,  with 
eagerness,  though  her  roundness  and  her  dimples  had 
hitherto  prevented  her  from  being  accused  of  that  vice. 
It  was  her  practice  to  speak  of  her  sister  by  her  whole 
name,  and  you  would  have  supposed,  from  her  usual  manner 
of  alluding  to  her,  that  Olive  was  much  the  older,  instead 
of  having  been  born  ten  years  later  than  Adeline.  She 
had  as  many  ways  as  possible  of  marking  the  gulf  that 
divided  them ;  but  she  bridged  it  over  lightly  now  by  saying 
to  Basil  Ransom  :  '  Isn't  she  a  dear  old  thing  ? ' 

This  bridge,  he  saw,  would  not  bear  his  weight,  and  her 
question  seemed  to  him  to  have  more  audacity  than  sense. 
Why  should  she  be  so  insincere  ?  She  might  know  that  a 
man  couldn't  recognise  Miss  Chancellor  in  such  a  descrip- 
tion as  that.  She  was  not  old — she  was  sharply  young ; 
and  it  was  inconceivable  to  him,  though  he  had  just  seen 
the  little  prophetess  kiss  her,  that  she  should  ever  become 
any  one's  'dear.'  Least  of  all  was  she  a  'thing ';  she  was 
intensely,  fearfully,  a  person.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  he  replied  :  '  She's  a  very  remarkable  woman.' 

'  Take  care — don't  be  reckless  1'  cried  Mrs.  Luna.  '  Do 
you  think  she  is  very  dreadful?' 

'  Don't  say  anything  against  my  cousin,'  Basil  answered ; 
and  at  that  moment  Miss  Chancellor  re-entered  the  room. 
She  murmured  some  request  that  he  would  excuse  her 
absence,  but  her  sister  interrupted  her  with  an  inquiry  about 
Miss  Tarrant. 

'  Mr.  Ransom  thinks  her  wonderfully  charming.  Why 
didn't  you  show  her  to  me  ?  Do  you  want  to  keep  her  all 
to  yourself?' 

Olive  rested  her  eyes  for  some  moments  upon  Mrs.  Luna, 
without  speaking.  Then  she  said :  '  Your  veil  is  not  put 
on  straight,  Adeline.' 

'  I  look  like  a  monster — that,  evidently,  is  what  you 
mean  !'  Adeline  exclaimed,  going  to  the  mirror  to  rearrange 
the  peccant  tissue. 

Miss  Chancellor  did  not  again  ask  Ransom  to  be  seated; 


xii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  95 

she  appeared  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he  would  leave  her 
now.  But  instead  of  this  he  returned  to  the  subject  of 
Verena ;  he  asked  her  whether  she  supposed  the  girl  would 
come  out  in  public — would  go  about  like  Mrs.  Farrinder  ? 

'  Come  out  in  public ! '  Olive  repeated ;  '  in  public  ? 
Why,  you  don't  imagine  that  pure  voice  is  to  be  hushed?' 

'  Oh,  hushed,  no !  it's  too  sweet  for  that.  But  not  raised 
to  a  scream ;  not  forced  and  cracked  and  ruined.  She 
oughtn't  to  become  like  the  others.  She  ought  to  remain 
apart.' 

'Apart — apart V  said  Miss  Chancellor;  'when  we  shall 
all  be  looking  to  her,  gathering  about  her,  praying  for  her !' 
There  was  an  exceeding  scorn  in  her  voice.  '  If  /  can  help 
her,  she  shall  be  an  immense  power  for  good.' 

'  An  immense  power  for  quackery,  my  dear  Miss  Olive  ! ' 
This  broke  from  Basil  Ransom's  lips  in  spite  of  a  vow  he 
had  just  taken  not  to  say  anything  that  should  '  aggravate ' 
his  hostess,  who  was  in  a  state  of  tension  it  was  not  difficult 
to  detect.  But  he  had  lowered  his  tone  to  friendly  pleading, 
and  the  offensive  word  was  mitigated  by  his  smile. 

She  moved  away  from  him,  backwards,  as  if  he  had 
given  her  a  push.  '  Ah,  well,  now  you  are  reckless,'  Mrs. 
Luna  remarked,  drawing  out  her  ribbons  before  the  mirror. 

'  I  don't  think  you  would  interfere  if  you  knew  how  little 
you  understand  us,'  Miss  Chancellor  said  to  Ransom. 

'  Whom  do  you  mean  by  "  us  " — your  whole  delightful 
sex  ?  I  don't  understand  you,  Miss  Olive.' 

'  Come  away  with  me,  and  I'll  explain  her  as  we  go,' 
Mrs.  Luna  went  on,  having  finished  her  toilet. 

Ransom  offered  his  hand  in  farewell  to  his  hostess ;  but 
Olive  found  it  impossible  to  do  anything  but  ignore  the 
gesture.  She  could  not  have  let  him  touch  her.  '  Well, 
then,  if  you  must  exhibit  her  to  the  multitude,  bring  her  on 
to  New  York,'  he  said,  with  the  same  attempt  at  a  light 
treatment. 

'  You'll  have  me  in  New  York — you  don't  want  any  one 
else!'  Mrs.  Luna  ejaculated,  coquettishly.  'I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  winter  there  now.' 

Olive  Chancellor  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her 
two  relatives,  one  near  and  the  other  distant,  but  each  so 


96  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xii. 

little  in  sympathy  with  her,  and  it  came  over  her  that  there 
might  be  a  kind  of  protection  for  her  in  binding  them  to- 
gether, entangling  them  with  each  other.  She  had  never 
had  an  idea  of  that  kind  in  her  life  before,  and  that  this 
sudden  subtlety  should  have  gleamed  upon  her  as  a 
momentary  talisman  gives  the  measure  of  her  present 
nervousness. 

'  If  I  could  take  her  to  New  York,  I  would  take  her 
farther,'  she  remarked,  hoping  she  was  enigmatical. 

1  You  talk  about  "  taking  "  her,  as  if  you  were  a  lecture- 
agent  Are  you  going  into  that  business  ?'  Mrs.  Luna  asked. 

Ransom  could  not  help  noticing  that  Miss  Chancellor 
would  not  shake  hands  with  him,  and  he  felt,  on  the  whole, 
rather  injured.  He  paused  a  moment  before  leaving  the 
room — standing  there  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door.  '  Look  here,  Miss  Olive,  what  did  you  write  to  me 
to  come  and  see  you  for?'  He  made  this  inquiry  with  a 
countenance  not  destitute  of  gaiety,  but  his  eyes  showed 
something  of  that  yellow  light — just  momentarily  lurid — of 
which  mention  has  been  made.  Mrs.  Luna  was  on  her  way 
downstairs,  and  her  companions  remained  face  to  face. 

'  Ask  my  sister — I  think  she  will  tell  you,'  said  Olive, 
turning  away  from  him  and  going  to  the  window.  She 
remained  there,  looking  out ;  she  heard  the  door  of  the 
house  close,  and  saw  the  two  cross  the  street  together.  As 
they  passed  out  of  sight  her  fingers  played,  softly,  a  little  air 
upon  the  pane;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  had  an 
inspiration. 

Basil  Ransom,  meanwhile,  put  the  question  to  Mrs. 
Luna.  '  If  she  was  not  going  to  like  me,  why  in  the  world 
did  she  write  to  me?' 

'  Because  she  wanted  you  to  know  me — she  thought  / 
would  like  you  !'  And  apparently  she  had  not  been  wrong  ; 
for  Mrs.  Luna,  when  they  reached  Beacon  Street,  would  not 
hear  of  his  leaving  her  to  go  her  way  alone,  would  not  in 
the  least  admit  his  plea  that  he  had  only  an  hour  or  two 
more  in  Boston  (he  was  to  travel,  economically,  by  the  boat) 
and  must  devote  the  time  to  his  business.  She  appealed 
to  his  Southern  chivalry,  and  not  in  vain ;  practically,  at 
least,  he  admitted  the  rights  of  women. 


XIII. 

MRS.  TARRANT  was  delighted,  as  may  be  imagined,  with 
her  daughter's  account  of  Miss  Chancellor's  interior,  and 
the  reception  the  girl  had  found  there ;  and  Verena,  for  the 
next  month,  took  her  way  very  often  to  Charles  Street. 
'  Just  you  be  as  nice  to  her  as  you  know  how/  Mrs  Tarrant 
had  said  to  her ;  and  she  reflected  with  some  complacency 
that  her  daughter  did  know — she  knew  how  to  do  every- 
thing of  that  sort.  It  was  not  that  Verena  had  been  taught ; 
that  branch  of  the  education  of  young  ladies  which  is  known 
as  *  manners  and  deportment '  had  not  figured,  as  a  definite 
head,  in  Miss  Tarrant's  curriculum.  She  had  been  told, 
indeed,  that  she  must  not  lie  nor  steal ;  but  she  had  been 
told  very  little  else  about  behaviour ;  her  only  great  advan- 
tage, in  short,  had  been  the  parental  example.  But  her 
mother  liked  to  think  that  she  was  quick  and  graceful,  and 
she  questioned  her  exhaustively  as  to  the  progress  of  this 
interesting  episode;  she  didn't  see  why,  as  she  said,  it 
shouldn't  be  a  permanent  '  stand-by '  for  Verena.  In  Mrs. 
Tarrant's  meditations  upon  the  girl's  future  she  had  never 
thought  of  a  fine  marriage  as  a  reward  of  effort  j  she  would 
have  deemed  herself  very  immoral  if  she  had  endeavoured 
to  capture  for  her  child  a  rich  husband.  She  had  not,  in 
fact,  a  very  vivid  sense  of  the  existence  of  such  agents  of 
fate ;  all  the  rich  men  she  had  seen  already  had  wives,  and 
the  unmarried  men,  who  were  generally  very  young,  were 
distinguished  from  each  other  not  so  much  by  the  figure  of 
their  income,  which  came  little  into  question,  as  by  the 
degree  of  their  interest  in  regenerating  ideas.  She  supposed 
Verena  would  marry  some  one,  some  day,  and  she  hoped 
the  personage  would  be  connected  with  public  life — which 
meant,  for  Mrs.  Tarrant,  that  his  name  would  be  visible,  in 

H 


98  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xm. 

the  lamplight,  on  a  coloured  poster,  in  the  doorway  of 
Tremont  Temple.  But  she  was  not  eager  about  this  vision, 
for  the  implications  of  matrimony  were  for  the  most  part 
wanting  in  brightness — consisted  of  a  tired  woman  holding 
a  baby  over  a  furnace-register  that  emitted  lukewarm  air. 
A  real  lovely  friendship  with  a  young  woman  who  had,  as  Mrs. 
Tarrant  expressed  it,  '  prop'ty,'  would  occupy  agreeably  such 
an  interval  as  might  occur  before  Verena  should  meet  her 
sterner  fate ;  it  would  be  a  great  thing  for  her  to  have  a 
place  to  run  into  when  she  wanted  a  change,  and  there  was 
no  knowing  but  what  it  might  end  in  her  having  two  homes. 
For  the  idea  of  the  home,  like  most  American  women  of 
her  quality,  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  an  extreme  reverence  ;  and 
it  was  her  candid  faith  that  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
past  twenty  years  she  had  preserved  the  spirit  of  this  insti- 
tution. If  it  should  exist  in  duplicate  for  Verena,  the  girl 
would  be  favoured  indeed. 

All  this  was  as  nothing,  however,  compared  with  the  fact 
that  Miss  Chancellor  seemed  to  think  her  young  friend's 
gift  was  inspirational,  or  at  any  rate,  as  Selah  had  so  often 
said,  quite  unique.  She  couldn't  make  out  very  exactly, 
by  Verena,  what  she  thought ;  but  if  the  way  Miss  Chan- 
cellor had  taken  hold  of  her  didn't  show  that  she  believed 
she  could  rouse  the  people,  Mrs.  Tarrant  didn't  know  what 
it  showed.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  that  Verena 
evidently  responded  freely;  she  didn't  think  anything  of 
what  she  spent  in  car-tickets,  and  indeed  she  had  told  her 
that  Miss  Chancellor  wanted  to  stuff  her  pockets  with  them. 
At  first  she  went  in  because  her  mother  liked  to  have  her ; 
but  now,  evidently,  she  went  because  she  was  so  much 
drawn.  She  expressed  the  highest  admiration  of  her  new 
friend ;  she  said  it  took  her  a  little  while  to  see  into  her, 
but  now  that  she  did,  well,  she  was  perfectly  splendid. 
When  Verena  wanted  to  admire  she  went  ahead  of  every 
one,  and  it  was  delightful  to  see  how  she  was  stimulated 
by  the  young  lady  in  Charles  Street.  They  thought  every- 
thing of  each  other — that  was  very  plain;  you  could  scarcely 
tell  which  thought  most.  Each  thought  the  other  so  noble, 
and  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  a  faith  that  between  them  they  would 
rouse  the  people.  What  Verena  wanted  was  some  one 


xm.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  99 

who  would  know  how  to  handle  her  (her  father  hadn't 
handled  anything  except  the  healing,  up  to  this  time,  with 
real  success),  and  perhaps  Miss  Chancellor  would  take  hold 
better  than  some  that  made  more  of  a  profession. 

'  It's  beautiful,  the  way  she  draws  you  out/  Verena  had 
said  to  her  mother;  f there's  something  so  searching  that 
the  first  time  I  visited  her  it  quite  realised  my  idea  of  the 
Day  of  Judgment.  But  she  seems  to  show  all  that's  in 
herself  at  the  same  time,  and  then  you  see  how  lovely  it  is. 
She's  just  as  pure  as  she  can  live ;  you  see  if  she  is  not; 
when  you  know  her.  She's  so  noble  herself  that  she  makes 
you  feel  as  if  you  wouldn't  want  to  be  less  so.  She  doesn't 
care  for  anything  but  the  elevation  of  our  sex ;  if  she  can 
work  a  little  toward  that,  it's  all  she  asks,  I  can  tell  you, 
she  kindles  me ;  she  does,  mother,  really.  She  doesn't  care 
a  speck  what  she  wears — only  to  have  an  elegant  parlour. 
Well,  she  has  got  that  ;  it's  a  regular  dream-like  place  to  sit. 
She's  going  to  have  a  tree  in,  next  week ;  she  says  she 
wants  to  see  me  sitting  under  a  tree.  I  believe  it's  some 
oriental  idea ;  it  has  lately  been  introduced  in  Paris.  She 
doesn't  like  French  ideas  as  a  general  thing ;  but  she  says 
this  has  more  nature  than  most.  She  has  got  so  many  of 
her  own  that  I  shouldn't  think  she  would  require  to  borrow 
any.  I'd  sit  in  a  forest  to  hear  her  bring  some  of  them 
out,'  Verena  went  on,  with  characteristic  raciness.  '  She 
just  quivers  when  she  describes  what  our  sex  has  been 
through.  It's  so  interesting  to  me  to  hear  what  I  have 
always  felt.  If  she  wasn't  afraid  of  facing  the  public,  she 
would  go  far  ahead  of  me.  But  she  doesn't  want  to  speak 
herself;  she  only  wants  to  call  me  out.  Mother,  if  she 
doesn't  attract  attention  to  me  there  isn't  any  attention  to 
be  attracted.  She  says  I  have  got  the  gift  of  expression 
— it  doesn't  matter  where  it  comes  from.  She  says  it's  a 
great  advantage  to  a  movement  to  be  personified  in  a  bright 
young  figure.  Well,  of  course  I'm  young,  and  I  feel  bright 
enough  when  once  I  get  started.  She  says  my  serenity 
while  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  hundreds  is  in  itself  a  qualifi- 
cation ;  in  fact,  she  seems  to  think  my  serenity  is  quite  God- 
given.  She  hasn't  got  much  of  it  herself;  she's  the  most 
emotional  woman  I  have  met,  up  to  now.  She  wants  to 


ioo  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XIIT. 

know  how  I  can  speak  the  way  I  do  unless  I  feel ;  and  of 
course  I  tell  her  I  do  feel,  so  far  as  I  realise.  She  seems 
to  be  realising  all  the  time ;  I  never  saw  any  one  that  took 
so  little  rest.  She  says  I  ought  to  do  something  great,  and 
she  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  should.  She  says  I  ought  to 
have  a  wide  influence,  if  I  can  obtain  the  ear  of  the  public ; 
and  I  say  to  her  that  if  I  do  it  will  be  all  her  influence.' 

Selah  Tarrant  looked  at  all  this  from  a  higher  stand- 
point than  his  wife ;  at  least  such  an  altitude  on  his  part 
was  to  be  inferred  from  his  increased  solemnity.  He 
committed  himself  to  no  precipitate  elation  at  the  idea  of 
his  daughter's  being  taken  up  by  a  patroness  of  movements 
who  happened  to  have  money ;  he  looked  at  his  child  only 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  service  she  might  render  to 
humanity.  To  keep  her  ideal  pointing  in  the  right  direc- 
tion, to  guide  and  animate  her  moral  life — this  was  a  duty 
more  imperative  for  a  parent  so  closely  identified  with 
revelations  and  panaceas  than  seeing  that  she  formed  pro- 
fitable worldly  connections.  He  was  '  off,'  moreover,  so 
much  of  the  time  that  he  could  keep  little  account  of  her 
comings  and  goings,  and  he  had  an  air  of  being  but 
vaguely  aware  of  whom  Miss  "Chancellor,  the  object 
now  of  his  wife's  perpetual  reference,  might  be.  Verena's 
initial  appearance  in  Boston,  as  he  called  her  performance 
at  Miss  Birdseye's,  had  been  a  great  success;  and  this 
reflection  added,  as  I  say,  to  his  habitually  sacerdotal 
expression.  He  looked  like  the  priest  of  a  religion  that 
was  passing  through  the  stage  of  miracles ;  he  carried  his 
responsibility  in  the  general  elongation  of  his  person,  of 
his  gestures  (his  hands  were  now  always  in  the  air,  as  if  he 
were  being  photographed  in  postures),  of  his  words  and 
sentences,  as  well  as  in  his  smile,  as  noiseless  as  a  patent 
hinge,  and  in  the  folds  of  his  eternal  waterproof.  He  was 
incapable  of  giving  an  off-hand  answer  or  opinion  on  the 
simplest  occasion,  and  his  tone  of  high  deliberation  in- 
creased in  proportion  as  the  subject  was  trivial  or  domestic. 
If  his  wife  asked  him  at  dinner  if  the  potatoes  were  good, 
he  replied  that  they  were  strikingly  fine  (he  used  to  speak 
of  the  newspaper  as  'fine' — he  applied  this  term  to 
objects  the  most  dissimilar),  and  embarked  on  a  parallel 


xin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  101 

worthy  of  Plutarch,  in  which  he  compared  them  with  other 
specimens  of  the  same  vegetable.  He  produced,  or  would 
have  liked  to  produce,  the  impression  of  looking  above 
and  beyond  everything,  of  not  caring  for  the  immediate,  of 
reckoning  only  with  the  long  run.  In  reality  he  had  one 
all-absorbing  solicitude — the  desire  to  get  paragraphs  put 
into  the  newspapers,  paragraphs  of  which  he  had  hitherto 
been  the  subject,  but  of  which  he  was  now  to  divide  the 
glory  with  his  daughter.  The  newspapers  were  his  world, 
the  richest  expression,  in  his  eyes,  of  human  life ;  and,  for 
him,  if  a  diviner  day  was  to  come  upon  earth,  it  would  be 
brought  about  by  copious  advertisement  in  the  daily  prints. 
He  looked  with  longing  for  the  moment  when  Verena 
should  be  advertised  among  the  'personals/  and  to  his 
mind  the  supremely  happy  people  were  those  (and  there 
were  a  good  many  of  them)  of  whom  there  was  some 
journalistic  mention  every  day  in  the  year.  Nothing  less 
than  this  would  really  have  satisfied  Selah  Tarrant ;  his 
ideal  of  bliss  was  to  be  as  regularly  and  indispensably  a 
component  part  of  the  newspaper  as  the  title  and  date,  or 
the  list  of  fires,  or  the  column  of  Western  jokes.  The 
vision  of  that  publicity  haunted  his  dreams,  and  he  would 
gladly  have  sacrificed  to  it  the  innermost  sanctities  of  home. 
Human  existence  to  him,  indeed,  was  a  huge  publicity,  in 
which  the  only  fault  was  that  it  was  sometimes  not  suffi- 
ciently effective.  There  had  been  a  Spiritualist  paper  of 
old  which  he  used  to  pervade ;  but  he  could  not  persuade 
himself  that  through  this  medium  his  personality  had  at- 
tracted general  attention  ;  and,  moreover,  the  sheet,  as  he 
said,  was  played  out  anyway.  Success  was  not  success  so 
long  as  his  daughter's  physique,  the  rumour  of  her  engage- 
ment, were  not  included  in  the  '  Jottings/  with  the  certainty 
of  being  extensively  copied. 

The  account  of  her  exploits  in  the  West  had  not  made 
their  way  to  the  seaboard  with  the  promptitude  that  he 
had  looked  for;  the  reason  of  this  being,  he  supposed, 
that  the  few  addresses  she  had  made  had  not  been  lectures, 
announced  in  advance,  to  which  tickets  had  been  sold,  but 
incidents,  of  abrupt  occurrence,  of  certain  multitudinous 
meetings,  where  there  had  been  other  performers  better 


102  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xin. 

known  to  fame.  They  had  brought  in  no  money  ;  they 
had  been  delivered  only  for  the  good  of  the  cause.  If  it 
could  only  be  known  that  she  spoke  for  nothing,  that 
might  deepen  the  reverberation ;  the  only  trouble  was  that 
her  speaking  for  nothing  was  not  the  way  to  remind  him 
that  he  had  a  remunerative  daughter.  It  was  not  the  way 
to  stand  out  so  very  much  either,  Selah  Tarrant  felt ;  for 
there  were  plenty  of  others  that  knew  how  to  make  as 
little  money  as  she  would.  To  speak — that  was  the  one 
thing  that  most  people  were  willing  to  do  for  nothing ;  it 
was  not  a  line  in  which  it  was  easy  to  appear  conspicuously 
disinterested.  Disinterestedness,  too,  was  incompatible  with 
receipts ;  and  receipts  were  what  Selah  Tarrant  was,  in  his 
own  parlance,  after.  He  wished  to  bring  about  the  day 
when  they  would  flow  in  freely ;  the  reader  perhaps  sees 
the  gesture  with  which,  in  his  colloquies  with  himself,  he 
accompanied  this  mental  image. 

It  seemed  to  him  at  present  that  the  fruitful  time  was 
not  far  off;  it  had  been  brought  appreciably  nearer  by  that 
fortunate  evening  at  Miss  Birdseye's.  If  Mrs.  Farrinder 
could  be  induced  to  write  an  '  open  letter '  about  Verena, 
that  would  do  more  than  anything  else.  Selah  was  not 
remarkable  for  delicacy  of  perception,  but  he  knew  the 
world  he  lived  in  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  Mrs. 
Farrinder  was  liable  to  rear  up,  as  they  used  to  say  down 
in  Pennsylvania,  where  he  lived  before  he  began  to  peddle 
lead-pencils.  She  wouldn't  always  take  things  as  you 
might  expect,  and  if  it  didn't  meet  her  views  to  pay  a 
public  tribute  to  Verena,  there  wasn't  any  way  known  to 
Tarrant's  ingenious  mind  of  getting  round  her.  If  it  was 
a  question  of  a  favour  from  Mrs.  Farrinder,  you  just  had 
to  wait  for  it,  as  you  would  for  a  rise  in  the  thermometer. 
He  had  told  Miss  Birdseye  what  he  would  like,  and  she 
seemed  to  think,  from  the  way  their  celebrated  friend  had 
been  affected,  that  the  idea  might  take  her  some  day  of 
just  letting  the  public  know  all  she  had  felt.  She  was  off 
somewhere  now  (since  that  evening),  but  Miss  Birdseye  had 
an  idea  that  when  she  was  back  in  Roxbury  she  would 
send  for  Verena  and  give  her  a  few  points.  Meanwhile, 
at  any  rate,  Selah  was  sure  he  had  a  card ;  he  felt  there 


xiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  103 

was  money  in  the  air.  It  might  already  be  said  there 
were  receipts  from  Charles  Street ;  that  rich,  peculiar  young 
woman  seemed  to  want  to  lavish  herself.  He  pretended, 
as  I  have  intimated,  not  to  notice  this ;  but  he  never  saw 
so  much  as  when  he  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  cornice. 
He  had  no  doubt  that  if  he  should  make  up  his  mind  to 
take  a  hall  some  night,  she  would  tell  him  where  the  bill 
might  be  sent.  That  was  what  he  was  thinking  of  now, 
whether  he  had  better  take  a  hall  right  away,  so  that 
Verena  might  leap  at  a  bound  into  renown,  or  wait  till  she 
had  made  a  few  more  appearances  in  private,  so  that 
curiosity  might  be  worked  up. 

These  meditations  accompanied  him  in  his  multifarious 
wanderings  through  the  streets  and  the  suburbs  of  the  New 
England  capital.  As  I  have  also  mentioned,  he  was  absent 
for  hours — long  periods  during  which  Mrs.  Tarrant,  sus- 
taining nature  with  a  hard-boiled  egg  and  a  doughnut, 
wondered  how  in  the  world  he  stayed  his  stomach.  He 
never  wanted  anything  but  a  piece  of  pie  when  he  came 
in ;  the  only  thing  about  which  he  was  particular  was  that 
it  should  be  served  up  hot.  She  had  a  private  conviction 
that  he  partook,  at  the  houses  of  his  lady  patients,  of  little 
lunches;  she  applied  this  term  to  any  episodical  repast, 
at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  It  is  but  fair  to  add  that 
once,  when  she  betrayed  her  suspicion,  Selah  remarked 
that  the  only  refreshment  he  ever  wanted  was  the  sense 
that  he  was  doing  some  good.  This  effort  with  him  had 
many  forms ;  it  involved,  among  other  things,  a  perpetual 
perambulation  of  the  streets,  a  haunting  of  horse-cars, 
railway-stations,  shops  that  were  'selling  off.'  But  the 
places  that  knew  him  best  were  the  offices  of  the  news- 
papers and  the  vestibules  of  the  hotels — the  big  marble- 
paved  chambers  of  informal  reunion  which  offer  to  the 
streets,  through  high  glass  plates,  the  sight  of  the  American 
citizen  suspended  by  his  heels.  Here,  amid  the  piled-up 
luggage,  the  convenient  spittoons,  the  elbowing  loungers, 
the  disconsolate  '  guests/  the  truculent  Irish  porters,  the 
rows  of  shaggy-backed  men  in  strange  hats,  writing  letters 
at  a  table  inlaid  with  advertisements,  Selah  Tarrant  made 
innumerable  contemplative  stations.  He  could  not  have 


104  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xin. 

told  you,  at  any  particular  moment,  what  he  was  doing ; 
he  only  had  a  general  sense  that  such  places  were  national 
nerve-centres,  and  that  the  more  one  looked  in,  the  more 
one  was  '  on  the  spot.'  The  penetralia  of  the  daily  press 
were,  however,  still  more  fascinating,  and  the  fact  that  they 
were  less  accessible,  that  here  he  found  barriers  in  his 
path,  only  added  to  the  zest  of  forcing  an  entrance.  He 
abounded  in  pretexts ;  he  even  sometimes  brought  contri- 
butions ;  he  was  persistent  and  penetrating,  he  was  known 
as  the  irrepressible  Tarrant.  He  hung  about,  sat  too  long, 
took  up  the  time  of  busy  people,  edged  into  the  printing- 
rooms  when  he  had  been  eliminated  from  the  office,  talked 
with  the  compositors  till  they  set  up  his  remarks  by 
mistake,  and  to  the  newsboys  when  the  compositors  had 
turned  their  backs.  He  was  always  trying  to  find  out 
what  was  'going  in';  he  would  have  liked  to  go  in  himself, 
bodily,  and,  failing  in  this,  he  hoped  to  get  advertisements 
inserted  gratis.  The  wish  of  his  soul  was  that  he  might  be 
interviewed ;  that  made  him  hover  at  the  editorial  elbow. 
Once  he  thought  he  had  been,  and  the  headings,  five  or 
six  deep,  danced  for  days  before  his  eyes ;  but  the  report 
never  appeared.  He  expected  his  revenge  for  this  the 
day  after  Verena  should  have  burst  forth  ;  he  saw  the 
attitude  in  which  he  should  receive  the  emissaries  who 
would  come  after  his  daughter. 


XIV. 

'  WE  ought  to  have  some  one  to  meet  her,'  Mrs.  Tarrant 
said ;  '  I  presume  she  wouldn't  care  to  come  out  just  to  see 
us.'  '  She,'  between  the  mother  and  the  daughter,  at  this 
period,  could  refer  only  to  Olive  Chancellor,  who  was  dis- 
cussed in  the  little  house  at  Cambridge  at  all  hours  and 
from  every  possible  point  of  view.  It  was  never  Verena 
now  who  began,  for  she  had  grown  rather  weary  of  the 
topic ;  she  had  her  own  ways  of  thinking  of  it,  which  were 
not  her  mother's,  and  if  she  lent  herself  to  this  lady's 
extensive  considerations  it  was  because  that  was  the  best 
way  of  keeping  her  thoughts  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Tarrant  had  an  idea  that  she  (Mrs.  Tarrant)  liked 
to  study  people,  and  that  she  was  now  engaged  in  an 
analysis  of  Miss  Chancellor.  It  carried  her  far,  and  she 
came  out  at  unexpected  times  with  her  results.  It  was  still 
her  purpose  to  interpret  the  world  to  the  ingenuous  mind 
of  her  daughter,  and  she  translated  Miss  Chancellor  with  a 
confidence  which  made  little  account  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  seen  her  but  once,  while  Verena  had  this  advantage 
nearly  every  day.  Verena  felt  that  by  this  time  she  knew 
Olive  very  well,  and  her  mother's  most  complicated  versions 
of  motive  and  temperament  (Mrs.  Tarrant,  with  the  most 
imperfect  idea  of  the  meaning  of  the  term,  was  always 
talking  about  people's  temperament),  rendered  small  justice 
to  the  phenomena  it  was  now  her  privilege  to  observe  in 
Charles  Street  Olive  was  much  more  remarkable  than 
Mrs.  Tarrant  suspected,  remarkable  as  Mrs.  Tarrant  believed 
her  to  be.  She  had  opened  Verena's  eyes  to  extraordinary 
pictures,  made  the  girl  believe  that  she  had  a  heavenly 
mission,  given  her,  as  we  have  seen,  quite  a  new  measure 
of  the  interest  of  life.  These  were  larger  consequences 


io6  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xiv. 

than  the  possibility  of  meeting  the  leaders  of  society  at 
Olive's  house.  She  had  met  no  one,  as  yet,  but  Mrs. 
Luna ;  her  new  friend  seemed  to  wish  to  keep  her  quite 
for  herself.  This  was  the  only  reproach  that  Mrs.  Tarrant 
directed  to  the  new  friend  as  yet ;  she  was  disappointed 
that  Verena  had  not  obtained  more  insight  into  the  world 
of  fashion.  It  was  one  of  the  prime  articles  of  her  faith 
that  the  world  of  fashion  was  wicked  and  hollow,  and, 
moreover,  Verena  told  her  that  Miss  Chancellor  loathed 
and  despised  it.  She  could  not  have  informed  you  wherein 
it  would  profit  her  daughter  (for  the  way  those  ladies  shrank 
from  any  new  gospel  was  notorious) ;  nevertheless  she  was 
vexed  that  Verena  shouldn't  come  back  to  her  with  a  little 
more  of  the  fragrance  of  Beacon  Street.  The  girl  herself 
would  have  been  the  most  interested  person  in  the  world  if 
she  had  not  been  the  most  resigned ;  she  took  all  that  was 
given  her  and  was  grateful,  and  missed  nothing  that  was 
withheld  ;  she  was  the  most  extraordinary  mixture  of  eager- 
ness and  docility.  Mrs.  Tarrant  theorised  about  tempera- 
ments and  she  loved  her  daughter;  but  she  was  only  vaguely 
aware  of  the  fact  that  she  had  at  her  side  the  sweetest 
flower  of  character  (as  one  might  say)  that  had  ever  bloomed 
on  earth.  She  was  proud  of  Verena's  brightness,  and  of 
her  special  talent ;  but  the  commonness  of  her  own  surface 
was  a  non-conductor  of  the  girl's  quality.  Therefore  she 
thought  that  it  would  add  to  her  success  in  life  to  know  a 
few  high-flyers,  if  only  to  put  them  to  shame ;  as  if  anything 
could  add  to  Verena's  success,  as  if  it  were  not  supreme 
success  simply  to  have  been  made  as  she  was  made. 

Mrs.  Tarrant  had  gone  into  town  to  call  upon  Miss 
Chancellor ;  she  carried  out  this  resolve,  on  which  she  had 
bestowed  infinite  consideration,  independently  of  Verena. 
She  had  decided  that  she  had  a  pretext ;  her  dignity  re- 
quired one,  for  she  felt  that  at  present  the  antique  pride  of 
the  Greenstreets  was  terribly  at  the  mercy  of  her  curiosity. 
She  wished  to  see  Miss  Chancellor  again,  and  to  see  her 
among  her  charming  appurtenances,  which  Verena  had 
described  to  her  with  great  minuteness.  The  pretext  that 
she  would  have  valued  most  was  wanting — that  of  Olive's 
having  come  out  to  Cambridge  to  pay  the  visit  that  had 


xiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  107 

been  solicited  from  the  first ;  so  she  had  to  take  the  next 
best — she  had  to  say  to  herself  that  it  was  her  duty  to  see 
what  she  should  think  of  a  place  where  her  daughter  spent 
so  much  time.  To  Miss  Chancellor  she  would  appear  to 
have  come  to  thank  her  for  her  hospitality ;  she  knew,  in 
advance,  just  the  air  she  should  take  (or  she  fancied  she 
knew  it — Mrs.  Tarrant's  airs  were  not  always  what  she  sup- 
posed), just  the  nuance  (she  had  also  an  impression  she 
knew  a  little  French)  of  her  tone.  Olive,  after  the  lapse 
of  weeks,  still  showed  no  symptoms  of  presenting  herself, 
and  Mrs.  Tarrant  rebuked  Verena  with  some  sternness  for 
not  having  made  her  feel  that  this  attention  was  due  to  the 
mother  of  her  friend.  Verena  could  scarcely  say  to  her 
she  guessed  Miss  Chancellor  didn't  think  much  of  that 
personage,  true  as  it  was  that  the  girl  had  discerned  this 
angular  fact,  which  she  attributed  to  Olive's  extraordinary 
comprehensiveness  of  view.  Verena  herself  did  not  suppose 
that  her  mother  occupied  a  very  important  place  in  the 
universe ;  and  Miss  Chancellor  never  looked  at  anything 
smaller  than  that.  Nor  was  she  free  to  report  (she  was 
certainly  now  less  frank  at  home,  and,  moreover,  the  sus- 
picion was  only  just  becoming  distinct  to  her)  that  Olive 
would  like  to  detach  her  from  her  parents  altogether,  and 
was  therefore  not  interested  in  appearing  to  cultivate  rela- 
tions with  them.  Mrs.  Tarrant,  I  may  mention,  had  a 
further  motive  :  she  was  consumed  with  the  desire  to  behold 
Mrs.  Luna.  This  circumstance  may  operate  as  a  proof 
that  the  aridity  of  her  life  was  great,  and  if  it  should  have 
that  effect  I  shall  not  be  able  to  gainsay  it.  She  had  seen 
all  the  people  who  went  to  lectures,  but  there  were  hours 
when  she  desired,  for  a  change,  to  see  some  who  didn't  go ; 
and  Mrs.  Luna,  from  Verena's  description  of  her,  summed 
up  the  characteristics  of  this  eccentric  class. 

Verena  had  given  great  attention  to  Olive's  brilliant 
sister ;  she  had  told  her  friend  everything  now — everything 
but  one  little  secret,  namely,  that  if  she  could  have  chosen 
at  the  beginning  she  would  have  liked  to  resemble  Mrs. 
Luna.  This  lady  fascinated  her,  carried  off  her  imagination 
to  strange  lands ;  she  should  enjoy  so  much  a  long  evening 
with  her  alone,  when  she  might  ask  her  ten  thousand  ques- 


io8  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xiv. 

tions.  But  she  never  saw  her  alone,  never  saw  her  at  all 
but  in  glimpses.  Adeline  flitted  in  and  out,  dressed  for 
dinners  and  concerts,  always  saying  something  worldly  to 
the  young  woman  from  Cambridge,  and  something  to  Olive 
that  had  a  freedom  which  she  herself  would  probably  never 
arrive  at  (a  failure  of  foresight  on  Verena's  part).  But 
Miss  Chancellor  never  detained  her,  never  gave  Verena  a 
chance  to  see  her,  never  appeared  to  imagine  that  she  could 
have  the  least  interest  in  such  a  person ;  only  took  up  the 
subject  again  after  Adeline  had  left  them — the  subject,  of 
course,  which  was  always  the  same,  the  subject  of  what 
they  should  do  together  for  their  suffering  sex.  It  was  not 
that  Verena  was  not  interested  in  that — gracious,  no  ;  it 
opened  up  before  her,  in  those  wonderful  colloquies  with 
Olive,  in  the  most  inspiring  way ;  but  her  fancy  would  make 
a  dart  to  right  or  left  when  other  game  crossed  their  path, 
and  her  companion  led  her,  intellectually,  a  dance  in  which 
her  feet — that  is,  her  head — failed  her  at  times  for  weari- 
ness. Mrs.  Tarrant  found  Miss  Chancellor  at  home,  but 
she  was  not  gratified  by  even  the  most  transient  glimpse  of 
Mrs.  Luna ;  a  fact  which,  in  her  heart,  Verena  regarded  as 
fortunate,  inasmuch  as  (she  said  to  herself)  if  her  mother, 
returning  from  Charles  Street,  began  to  explain  Miss  Chan- 
cellor to  her  with  fresh  energy,  and  as  if  she  (Verena)  had 
never  seen  her,  and  up  to  this  time  they  had  had  nothing 
to  say  about  her,  to  what  developments  (of  the  same  sort) 
would  not  an  encounter  with  Adeline  have  given  rise  ? 

When  Verena  at  last  said  to  her  friend  that  she  thought 
she  ought  to  come  out  to  Cambridge — she  didn't  under- 
stand why  she  didn't — Olive  expressed  her  reasons  very 
frankly,  admitted  that  she  was  jealous,  that  she  didn't  wish 
to  think  of  the  girl's  belonging  to  any  one  but  herself.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tarrant  would  have  authority,  opposed  claims, 
and  she  didn't  wish  to  see  them,  to  remember  that  they 
existed.  This  was  true,  so  far  as  it  went ;  but  Olive  could 
not  tell  Verena  everything — could  not  tell  her  that  she 
hated  that  dreadful  pair  at  Cambridge.  As  we  know,  she 
had  forbidden  herself  this  emotion  as  regards  individuals ; 
and  she  flattered  herself  that  she  considered  the  Tarrants 
as  a  type,  a  deplorable  one,  a  class  that,  with  the  public  at 


xiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  109 

large,  discredited  the  cause  of  the  new  truths.  She  had 
talked  them  over  with  Miss  Birdseye  (Olive  was  always 
looking  after  her  now  and  giving  her  things — the  good  lady 
appeared  at  this  period  in  wonderful  caps  and  shawls — for 
she  felt  she  couldn't  thank  her  enough),  and  even  Doctor 
Prance's  fellow-lodger,  whose  animosity  to  flourishing  evils 
lived  in  the  happiest  (though  the  most  illicit)  union  with 
the  mania  for  finding  excuses,  even  Miss  Birdseye  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  if  you  came  to  examine  his  record, 
poor  Selah  didn't  amount  to  so  very  much.  How  little  he 
amounted  to  Olive  perceived  after  she  had  made  Verena 
talk,  as  the  girl  did  immensely,  about  her  father  and 
mother — quite  unconscious,  meanwhile,  of  the  conclusions 
she  suggested  to  Miss  Chancellor.  Tarrant  was  a  moralist 
without  moral  sense — that  was  very  clear  to  Olive  as  she 
listened  to  the  history  of  his  daughter's  childhood  and  youth, 
which  Verena. related  with  an  extraordinary  artless  vividness. 
This  narrative,  tremendously  fascinating  to  Miss  Chancellor, 
made  her  feel  in  all  sorts  of  ways — prompted  her  to  ask 
herself  whether  the  girl  was  also  destitute  of  the  perception  of 
right  and  wrong.  No,  she  was  only  supremely  innocent ;  she 
didn't  understand,  she  didn't  interpret  nor  see  the  portee  of 
what  she  described  j  she  had  no  idea  whatever  of  judging 
her  parents.  Olive  had  wished  to  '  realise '  the  conditions 
in  which  her  wonderful  young  friend  (she  thought  her  more 
wonderful  every  day)  had  developed,  and  to  this  end,  as  I 
have  related,  she  prompted  her  to  infinite  discourse.  But 
now  she  was  satisfied,  the  realisation  was  complete,  and 
what  she  would  have  liked  to  impose  on  the  girl  was  an 
effectual  rupture  with  her  past.  That  past  she  by  no  means 
absolutely  deplored,  for  it  had  the  merit  of  having  initiated 
Verena  (and  her  patroness,  through  her  agency)  into  the 
miseries  and  mysteries  of  the  People.  It  was  her  theory 
that  Verena  (in  spite  of  the  blood  of  the  Greenstreets,  and, 
after  all,  who  were  they  ?)  was  a  flower  of  the  great  De- 
mocracy, and  that  it  was  impossible  to  have  had  an  origin 
less  distinguished  than  Tarrant  himself.  His  birth,  in  some 
unheard-of  place  in  Pennsylvania,  was  quite  inexpressibly 
low,  and  Olive  would  have  been  much  disappointed  if  it 
had  been  wanting  in  this  defect.  She  liked  to  think  that 


i  io  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xrv. 

Verena,  in  her  childhood,  had  known  almost  the  extremity 
of  poverty,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  ferocity  in  the  joy  with 
which  she  reflected  that  there  had  been  moments  when  this 
delicate  creature  came  near  (if  the  pinch  had  only  lasted  a 
little  longer)  to  literally  going  without  food.  These  things 
added  to  her  value  for  Olive ;  they  made  that  young  lady 
feel  that  their  common  undertaking  would,  in  consequence, 
be  so  much  more  serious.  It  is  always  supposed  that 
revolutionists  have  been  goaded,  and  the  goading  would 
have  been  rather  deficient  here  were  it  not  for  such  happy 
accidents  in  Verena's  past.  When  she  conveyed  from  her 
mother  a  summons  to  Cambridge  for  a  particular  occasion, 
Olive  perceived  that  the  great  effort  must  now  be  made. 
Great  efforts  were  nothing  new  to  her — it  was  a  great  effort 
to  live  at  all — but  this  one  appeared  to  her  exceptionally 
cruel.  She  determined,  however,  to  make  it,  promising 
herself  that  her  first  visit  to  Mrs.  Tarrant  should  also  be  her 
last.  Her  only  consolation  was  that  she  expected  to  suffer 
intensely;  for  the  prospect  of  suffering  was  always,  spiritually 
speaking,  so  much  cash  in  her  pocket.  It  was  arranged 
that  Olive  should  come  to  tea  (the  repast  that  Selah  de- 
signated as  his  supper),  when  Mrs.  Tarrant,  as  we  have 
seen,  desired  to  do  her  honour  by  inviting  another  guest. 
This  guest,  after  much  deliberation  between  that  lady  and 
Verena,  was  selected,  and  the  first  person  Olive  saw  on 
entering  the  little  parlour  in  Cambridge  was  a  young  man 
with  hair  prematurely,  or,  as  one  felt  that  one  should  say, 
precociously  white,  whom  she  had  a  vague  impression  she 
had  encountered  before,  and  who  was  introduced  to  her  as 
Mr.  Matthias  Pardon. 

She  suffered  less  than  she  had  hoped — she  was  so  taken 
up  with  the  consideration  of  Verena's  interior.  It  was  as 
bad  as  she  could  have  desired;  desired  in  order  to  feel 
that  (to  take  her  out  of  such  a  milieu  as  that)  she  should 
have  a  right  to  draw  her  altogether  to  herself.  Olive  wished 
more  and  more  to  extract  some  definite  pledge  from  her ; 
she  could  hardly  say  what  it  had  best  be  as  yet ;  she  only 
felt  that  it  must  be  something  that  would  have  an  absolute 
sanctity  for  Verena  and  would  bind  them  together  for  life. 
On  this  occasion  it  seemed  to  shape  itself  in  her  mind;  she 


xiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  in 

began  to  see  what  it  ought  to  be,  though  she  also  saw  that 
she  would  perhaps  have  to  wait  awhile.  Mrs.  Tarrant,  too, 
in  her  own  house,  became  now  a  complete  figure ;  there 
was  no  manner  of  doubt  left  as  to  her  being  vulgar.  Olive 
Chancellor  despised  vulgarity,  had  a  scent  for  it  which  she 
followed  up  in  her  own  family,  so  that  often,  with  a  rising 
flush,  she  detected  the  taint  even  in  Adeline.  There  were 
times,  indeed,  when  every  one  seemed  to  have  it,  every  one 
but  Miss  Birdseye  (who  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — she 
was  an  antique)  and  the  poorest,  humblest  people.  The 
toilers  and  spinners,  the  very  obscure,  these  were  the  only 
persons  who  were  safe  from  it.  Miss  Chancellor  would 
have  been  much  happier  if  the  movements  she  was  inter- 
ested in  could  have  been  carried  on  only  by  the  people  she 
liked,  and  if  revolutions,  somehow,  didn't  always  have  to 
begin  with  one's  self — with  internal  convulsions,  sacrifices, 
executions.  A  common  end,  unfortunately,  however  fine 
as  regards  a  special  result,  does  not  make .  community 
impersonal. 

Mrs.  Tarrant,  with  her  soft  corpulence,  looked  to  her 
guest  very  bleached  and  tumid;  her  complexion  had  a 
kind  of  withered  glaze ;  her  hair,  very  scanty,  was  drawn 
off  her  forehead  ^  la  Chinoise ;  she  had  no  eyebrows,  and 
her  eyes  seemed  to  stare,  like  those  of  a  figure  of  wax. 
When  she  talked  and  wished  to  insist,  and  she  was  always 
insisting,  she  puckered  and  distorted  her  face,  with  an 
effort  to  express  the  inexpressible,  which  turned  out,  after 
all,  to  be  nothing.  She  had  a  kind  of  doleful  elegance, 
tried  to  be  confidential,  lowered  her  voice  and  looked  as  if 
she  wished  to  establish  a  secret  understanding,  in  order  to 
ask  her  visitor  if  she  would  venture  on  an  apple-fritter.  She 
wore  a  flowing  mantle,  which  resembled  her  husband's 
waterproof — a  garment  which,  when  she  turned  to  her 
daughter  or  talked  about  her,  might  have  passed  for  the 
robe  of  a  sort  of  priestess  of  maternity.  She  endeavoured 
to  keep  the  conversation  in  a  channel  which  would  enable 
her  to  ask  sudden  incoherent  questions  of  Olive,  mainly  as 
to  whether  she  knew  the  principal  ladies  (the  expression 
was  Mrs.  Tarrant's),  not  only  in  Boston,  but  in  the  other 
cities  which,  in  her  nomadic  course,  she  herself  had  visited. 


H2  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xiv. 

Olive  knew  some  of  them,  and  of  some  of  them  had  never 
heard;  but  she  was  irritated,  and  pretended  a  universal 
ignorance  (she  was  conscious  that  she  had  never  told  so 
many  fibs),  by  which  her  hostess  was  much  disconcerted, 
although  her  questions  had  apparently  been  questions  pure 
and  simple,  leading  nowhither  and  without  bearings  on  any 
new  truth. 


XV, 

TARRANT,  however,  kept  an  eye  in  that  direction ;  he  was 
solemnly  civil  to  Miss  Chancellor,  handed  her  the  dishes 
at  table  over  and  over  again,  and  ventured  to  intimate  that 
the  apple-fritters  were  very  fine ;  but,  save  for  this,  alluded 
to  nothing  more  trivial  than  the  regeneration  of  humanity 
and  the  strong  hope  he  felt  that  Miss  Birdseye  would  again 
have  one  of  her  delightful  gatherings.  With  regard  to  this 
latter  point  he  explained  that  it  was  not  in  order  that  he 
might  again  present  his  daughter  to  the  company,  but 
simply  because  on  such  occasions  there  was  a  valuable 
interchange  of  hopeful  thought,  a  contact  of  mind  with 
mind.  If  Verena  had  anything  suggestive  to  contribute  to 
the  social  problem,  the  opportunity  would  come — that  was 
part  of  their  faith.  They  couldn't  reach  out  for  it  and  try 
and  push  their  way ;  if  they  were  wanted,  their  hour  would 
strike ;  if  they  were  not,  they  would  just  keep  still  and  let 
others  press  forward  who  seemed  to  be  called.  If  they  were 
called,  they  would  know  it  j  and  if  they  weren't,  they  could 
just  hold  on  to  each  other  as  they  had  always  done. 
Tarrant  was  very  fond  of  alternatives,  and  he  mentioned 
several  others ;  it  was  never  his  fault  if  his  listeners  failed 
to  think  him  impartial.  They  hadn't  much,  as  Miss  Chan« 
cellor  could  see ;  she  could  tell  by  their  manner  of  life  that 
they  hadn't  raked  in  the  dollars ;  but  they  had  faith  that, 
whether  one  raised  one's  voice  or  simply  worked  on  in 
silence,  the  principal  difficulties  would  straighten  themselves 
out ;  and  they  had  also  a  considerable  experience  of  great 
questions.  Tarrant  spoke  as  if,  as  a  family,  they  were 
prepared  to  take  charge  of  them  on  moderate  terms.  He 
always  said  '  ma'am '  in  speaking  to  Olive,  to  whom,  more- 
over, the  air  had  never  been  so  filled  with  the  sound  of  her 


ii4  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xv. 

own  name.  It  was  always  in  her  ear,  save  when  Mrs. 
Tarrant  and  Verena  conversed  in  prolonged  and  ingenuous 
asides  j  this  was  still  for  her  benefit,  but  the  pronoun 
sufficed  them.  She  had  wished  to  judge  Doctor  Tarrant 
(not  that  she  believed  he  had  come  honestly  by  his  title), 
to  make  up  her  mind.  She  had  done  these  things  now, 
and  she  expressed  to  herself  the  kind  of  man  she  believed 
him  to  be  in  reflecting  that  if  she  should  offer  him  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  renounce  all  claim  to  Verena,  keeping 
— he  and  his  wife — clear  of  her  for  the  rest  of  time,  he 
would  probably  say,  with  his  fearful  smile,  ( Make  it  twenty, 
money  down,  and  I'll  do  it.'  Some  image  of  this  trans- 
action, as  one  of  the  possibilities  of  the  future,  outlined 
itself  for  Olive  among  the  moral  incisions  of  that  evening. 
It  seemed  implied  in  the  very  place,  the  bald  bareness  of 
Tarrant's  temporary  lair,  a  wooden  cottage,  with  a  rough 
front  yard,  a  little  naked  piazza,  which  seemed  rather  to 
expose  than  to  protect,  facing  upon  an  unpaved  road,  in 
which  the  footway  was  overlaid  with  a  strip  of  planks. 
These  planks  were  embedded  in  ice  or  in  liquid  thaw, 
according  to  the  momentary  mood  of  the  weather,  and  the 
advancing  pedestrian  traversed  them  in  the  attitude,  and 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  suspense,  of  a  rope-dancer.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  house  to  speak  of;  nothing,  to  Olive's 
sense,  but  a  smell  of  kerosene;  though  she  had  a  con- 
sciousness of  sitting  down  somewhere — the  object  creaked 
and  rocked  beneath  her — and  of  the  table  at  tea  being 
covered  with  a  cloth  stamped  in  bright  colours. 

As  regards  the  precuniary  transaction  with  Selah,  it  was 
strange  how  she  should  have  seen  it  through  the  conviction 
that  Verena  would  never  give  up  her  parents.  Olive  was 
sure  that  she  would  never  turn  her  back  upon  them,  would 
always  share  with  them.  She  would  have  despised  her  had 
she  thought  her  capable  of  another  course ;  yet  it  baffled 
her  to  understand  why,  when  parents  were  so  trashy,  this 
natural  law  should  not  be  suspended.  Such  a  question 
brought  her  back,  however,  to  her  perpetual  enigma,  the 
mystery  she  had  already  turned  over  in  her  mind  for  hours 
together — the  wonder  of  such  people  being  Verena's  pro- 
genitors at  all.  She  had  explained  it,  as  we  explain  all 


xv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  115 

exceptional  things,  by  making  the  part,  as  the  French  say, 
of  the  miraculous.  She  had  come  to  consider  the  girl  as  a 
wonder  of  wonders,  to  hold  that  no  human  origin,  however 
congruous  it  might  superficially  appear,  would  sufficiently 
account  for  her ;  that  her  springing  up  between  Selah  and 
his  wife  was  an  exquisite  whim  of  the  creative  force ;  and 
that  in  such  a  case  a  few  shades  more  or  less  of  the  in- 
explicable didn't  matter.  It  was  notorious  that  great 
beauties,  great  geniuses,  great  characters,  take  their  own 
times  and  places  for  coming  into  the  world,  leaving  the 
gaping  spectators  to  make  them  '  fit  in/  and  holding  from 
far-off  ancestors,  or  even,  perhaps,  straight  from  the  divine 
generosity,  much  more  than  from  their  ugly  or  stupid  pro- 
genitors. They  were  incalculable  phenomena,  anyway,  as 
Selah  would  have  said.  Verena,  for  Olive,  was  the  very 
type  and  model  of  the  '  gifted  being ; '  her  qualities  had  not 
been  bought  and  paid  for;  they  were  like  some  brilliant 
birthday-present,  left  at  the  door  by  an  unknown  messenger, 
to  be  delightful  for  ever  as  an  inexhaustible  legacy,  and 
amusing  for  ever  from  the  obscurity  of  its  source.  They 
were  superabundantly  crude  as  yet — happily  for  Olive,  who 
promised  herself,  as  we  know,  to  train  and  polish  them — 
but  they  were  as  genuine  as  fruit  and  flowers,  as  the  glow 
of  the  fire  or  the  plash  of  water.  For  her  scrutinising 
friend  Verena  had  the  disposition  of  the  artist,  the  spirit  to 
which  all  charming  forms  come  easily  and  naturally.  It 
required  an  effort  at  first  to  imagine  an  artist  so  untaught, 
so  mistaught,  so  poor  in  experience ;  but  then  it  required 
an  effort  also  to  imagine  people  like  the  old  Tarrants,  or  a 
life  so  full  as  her  life  had  been  of  ugly  things.  Only  an 
exquisite  creature  could  have  resisted  such  associations, 
only  a  girl  who  had  some  natural  light,  some  divine  spark 
of  taste.  There  were  people  like  that,  fresh  from  the  hand 
of  Omnipotence;  they  were  far  from  common,  but  their 
existence  was  as  incontestable  as  it  was  beneficent. 

Tarrant's  talk  about  his  daughter,  her  prospects,  her 
enthusiasm,  was  terribly  painful  to  Olive ;  it  brought  back 
to  her  what  she  had  suffered  already  from  the  idea  that  he 
laid  his  hands  upon  her  to  make  her  speak.  That  he 
should  be  mixed  up  in  any  way  with  this  exercise  of  her 


ii6  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xv. 

genius  was  a  great  injury  to  the  cause,  and  Olive  had 
already  determined  that  in  future  Verena  should  dispense 
with  his  co-operation.  The  girl  had  virtually  confessed 
that  she  lent  herself  to  it  only  because  it  gave  him  pleasure, 
and  that  anything  else  would  do  as  well,  anything  that 
would  make  her  quiet  a  little  before  she  began  to  'give 
out.'  Olive  took  upon  herself  to  believe  that  she  could 
make  her  quiet,  though,  certainly,  she  had  never  had  that 
effect  upon  any  one ;  she  would  mount  the  platform  with 
Verena  if  necessary,  and  lay  her  hands  upon  her  head. 
Why  in  the  world  had  a  perverse  fate  decreed  that  Tarrant 
should  take  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  Woman — as  if  she 
wanted  his  aid  to  arrive  at  her  goal ;  a  charlatan  of  the 
poor,  lean,  shabby  sort,  without  the  humour,  brilliancy, 
prestige,  which  sometimes  throw  a  drapery  over  shallow- 
ness  ?  Mr.  Pardon  evidently  took  an  interest  as  well,  and 
there  was  something  in  his  appearance  that  seemed  to  say 
that  his  sympathy  would  not  be  dangerous.  He  was  much 
at  his  ease,  plainly,  beneath  the  root  of  the  Tarrants,  and 
Olive  reflected  that  though  Verena  had  told  her  much 
about  him,  she  had  not  given  her  the  idea  that  he  was  as 
intimate  as  that.  What  she  had  mainly  said  was  that  he 
sometimes  took  her  to  the  theatre.  Olive  could  enter,  to  a 
certain  extent,  into  that ;  she  herself  had  had  a  phase  (some 
time  after  her  father's  death — her  mother's  had  preceded 
his — when  she  bought  the  little  house  in  Charles  Street 
and  began  to  live  alone),  during  which  she  accompanied 
gentlemen  to  respectable  places  of  amusement.  She  was 
accordingly  not  shocked  at  the  idea  of  such  adventures  on 
Verena's  part ;  than  which,  indeed,  judging  from  her  own 
experience,  nothing  could  well  have  been  less  adventurous. 
Her  recollections  of  these  expeditions  were  as  of  something 
solemn  and  edifying — of  the  earnest  interest  in  her  welfare 
exhibited  by  her  companion  (there  were  few  occasions  on 
which  the  young  Bostonian  appeared  to  more  advantage), 
of  the  comfort  of  other  friends  sitting  near,  who  were  sure 
to  know  whom  she  was  with,  of  serious  discussion  between 
the  acts  in  regard  to  the  behaviour  of  the  characters  in  the 
piece,  and  of  the  speech  at  the  end  with  which,  as  the 
young  man  quitted  her  at  her  door,  she  rewarded  his 


xv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  117 

civility — '  I  must  thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  evening.' 
She  always  felt  that  she  made  that  too  prim;  her  lips 
stiffened  themselves  as  she  spoke.  But  the  whole  affair 
had  always  a  primness ;  this  was  discernible  even  to  Olive's 
very  limited  sense  of  humour.  It  was  not  so  religious  as 
going  to  evening-service  at  King's  Chapel ;  but  it  was  the 
next  thing  to  it.  Of  course  all  girls  didn't  do  it ;  there 
were  families  that  viewed  such  a  custom  with  disfavour. 
But  this  was  where  the  girls  were  of  the  romping  sort; 
there  had  to  be  some  things  they  were  known  not  to  do. 
As  a  general  thing,  moreover,  the  practice  was  confined  to 
the  decorous;  it  was  a  sign  of  culture  and  quiet  tastes. 
All  this  made  it  innocent  for  Verena,  whose  life  had 
exposed  her  to  much  worse  dangers ;  but  the  thing  referred 
itself  in  Olive's  mind  to  a  danger  which  cast  a  perpetual 
shadow  there — the  possibility  of  the  girl's  embarking  with 
some  ingenuous  youth  on  an  expedition  that  would  last 
much  longer  than  an  evening.  She  was  haunted,  in  a 
word,  with  the  fear  that  Verena  would  marry,  a  fate  to 
which  she  was  altogether  unprepared  to  surrender  her; 
and  this  made  her  look  with  suspicion  upon  all  male 
acquaintance. 

Mr.  Pardon  was  not  the  only  one  she  knew ;  she  had  an 
example  of  the  rest  in  the  persons  of  two  young  Harvard 
law- students,  who  presented  themselves  after  tea  on  this 
same  occasion.  As  they  sat  there  Olive  wondered  whether 
Verena  had  kept  something  from  her,  whether  she  were, 
after  all  (like  so  many  other  girls  in  Cambridge),  a  college- 
'  belle,'  an  object  of  frequentation  to  undergraduates.  It 
was  natural  that  at  the  seat  of  a  big  university  there  should 
be  girls  like  that,  with  students  dangling  after  them,  but  she 
didn't  want  Verena  to  be  one  of  them.  There  were  some 
that  received  the  Seniors  and  Juniors;  others  that  were 
accessible  to  Sophomores  and  Freshmen.  Certain  young 
ladies  distinguished  the  professional  students ;  there  was  a 
group,  even,  that  was  on  the  best  terms  with  the  young 
men  who  were  studying  for  the  Unitarian  ministry  in  that 
queer  little  barrack  at  the  end  of  Divinity  Avenue.  The 
advent  of  the  new  visitors  made  Mrs.  Tarrant  bustle 
immensely ;  but  after  she  had  caused  every  one  to  change 


ii8  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xv. 

places  two  or  three  times  with  every  one  else  the  company 
subsided  into  a  circle  which  was  occasionally  broken  by 
wandering  movements  on  the  part  of  her  husband,  who,  in 
the  absence  of  anything  to  say  on  any  subject  whatever, 
placed  himself  at  different  points  in  listening  attitudes, 
shaking  his  head  slowly  up  and  down,  and  gazing  at  the 
carpet  with  an  air  of  supernatural  attention.  Mrs.  Tarrant 
asked  the  young  men  from  the  Law  School  about  their 
studies,  and  whether  they  meant  to  follow  them  up 
seriously;  said  she  thought  some  of  the  laws  were  very 
unjust,  and  she  hoped  they  meant  to  try  and  improve  them. 
She  had  suffered  by  the  laws  herself,  at  the  time  her  father 
died ;  she  hadn't  got  half  the  prop'ty  she  should  have  got 
if  they  had  been  different.  She  thought  they  should  be  for 
public  matters,  not  for  people's  private  affairs;  the  idea 
always  seemed  to  her  to  keep  you  down  if  you  were  down, 
and  to  hedge  you  in  with  difficulties.  Sometimes  she 
thought  it  was  a  wonder  how  she  had  developed  in  the 
face  of  so  many ;  but  it  was  a  proof  that  freedom  was 
everywhere,  if  you  only  knew  how  to  look  for  it. 

The  two  young  men  were  in  the  best  humour;  they 
greeted  these  sallies  with  a  merriment  of  which,  though  it 
was  courteous  in  form,  Olive  was  by  no  means  unable  to 
define  the  spirit.  They  talked  naturally  more  with  Verena 
than  with  her  mother;  and  while  they  were  so  engaged 
Mrs.  Tarrant  explained  to  her  who  they  were,  and  how  one 
of  them,  the  smaller,  who  was  not  quite  so  spruce,  had 
brought  the  other,  his  particular  friend,  to  introduce  him. 
This  friend,  Mr.  Burrage,  was  from  New  York ;  he  was 
very  fashionable,  he  went  out  a  great  deal  in  Boston  ('  I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  some  of  the  places,'  said  Mrs. 
Tarrant) ;  his  "  fam'ly  "  was  very  rich. 

'  Well,  he  knows  plenty  of  that  sort,'  Mrs.  Tarrant  went 
on,  '  but  he  felt  unsatisfied ;  he  didn't  know  any  one  like  us. 
He  told  Mr.  Gracie  (that's  the  little  one)  that  he  felt  as  if 
he  must ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  hold  out.  So  we  told 
Mr.  Gracie,  of  course,  to  bring  him  right  round.  Well,  I 
hope  he'll  get  something  from  us,  I'm  sure.  He  has  been 
reported  to  be  engaged  to  Miss  Winkworth;  I  have  no 
doubt  you  know  who  I  mean.  But  Mr.  Gracie  says  he 


xv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  119 

hasn't  looked  at  her  more  than  twice.  That's  the  way 
rumours  fly  round  in  that  set,  I  presume.  Well,  I  am  glad 
we  are  not  in  it,  wherever  we  are  !  Mr.  Grade  is  very 
different;  he  is  intensely  plain,  but  I  believe  he  is  very 
learned.  You  don't  think  him  plain  ?  Oh,  you  don't  know  ? 
Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  care,  you  must  see  so  many. 
But  I  must  say,  when  a  young  man  looks  like  that,  I  call 
him  painfully  plain.  I  heard  Doctor  Tarrant  make  the 
remark  the  last  time  he  was  here.  I  don't  say  but  what 
the  plainest  are  the  best.  Well,  I  had  no  idea  we  were 
going  to  have  a  party  when  I  asked  you.  I  wonder 
whether  Verena  hadn't  better  hand  the  cake ;  we  generally 
find  the  students  enjoy  it  so  much.' 

This  office  was  ultimately  delegated  to  Selah,  who,  after 
a  considerable  absence,  reappeared  with  a  dish  of  dainties, 
which  he  presented  successively  to  each  member  of  the 
company.  Olive  saw  Verena  lavish  her  smiles  on  Mr. 
Gracie  and  Mr.  Burrage ;  the  liveliest  relation  had  estab- 
lished itself,  and  the  latter  gentleman  in  especial  abounded 
in  appreciative  laughter.  It  might  have  been  fancied,  just 
from  looking  at  the  group,  that  Verena's  vocation  was  to 
smile  and  talk  with  young  men  who  bent  towards  her; 
might  have  been  fancied,  that  is,  by  a  person  less  sure  of 
the  contrary  than  Olive,  who  had  reason  to  know  that  a 
'  gifted  being '  is  sent  into  the  world  for  a  very  different 
purpose,  and  that  making  the  time  pass  pleasantly  for  con- 
ceited young  men  is  the  last  duty  you  are  bound  to  think 
of  if  you  happen  to  have  a  talent  for  embodying  a  cause. 
Olive  tried  to  be  glad  that  her  friend  had  the  richness  of 
nature  that  makes  a  woman  gracious  without  latent  pur- 
poses ;  she  reflected  that  Verena  was  not  in  the  smallest 
degree  a  flirt,  that  she  was  only  enchantingly  and  universally 
genial,  that  nature  had  given  her  a  beautiful  smile,  which 
fell  impartially  on  every  one,  man  and  woman,  alike.  Olive 
may  have  been  right,  but  it  shall  be  confided  to  the  reader 
that  in  reality  she  never  knew,  by  any  sense  of  her  own, 
whether  Verena  were  a  flirt  or  not.  This  young  lady  could 
not  possibly  have  told  her  (even  if  she  herself  knew,  which 
she  didn't),  and  Olive,  destitute  of  the  quality,  had  no 
means  of  taking  the  measure  in  another  of  the  subtle 


120  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xv. 

feminine  desire  to  please.  She  could  see  the  difference 
between  Mr.  Gracie  and  Mr.  Burrage ;  her  being  bored  by 
Mrs.  Tarrant's  attempting  to  point  it  out  is  perhaps  a  proof 
of  that.  It  was  a  curious  incident  of  her  zeal  for  the 
regeneration  of  her  sex  that  manly  things  were,  perhaps  on 
the  whole,  what  she  understood  best.  Mr.  Burrage  was 
rather  a  handsome  youth,  with  a  laughing,  clever  face,  a 
certain  sumptuosity  of  apparel,  an  air  of  belonging  to  the 
'fast  set' — a  precocious,  good-natured  man  of  the  world, 
curious  of  new  sensations  and  containing,  perhaps,  the 
making  of  a  dilettante.  Being,  doubtless,  a  little  ambitious, 
and  liking  to  flatter  himself  that  he  appreciated  worth  in 
lowly  forms,  he  had  associated  himself  with  the  ruder  but 
at  the  same  time  acuter  personality  of  a  genuine  son  of 
New  England,  who  had  a  harder  head  than  his  own  and  a 
humour  in  reality  more  cynical,  and  who,  having  earlier 
knowledge  of  the  Tarrants,  had  undertaken  to  show  him 
something  indigenous  and  curious,  possibly  even  fascinating. 
Mr.  Gracie  was  short,  with  a  big  head ;  he  wore  eye-glasses, 
looked  unkempt,  almost  rustic,  and  said  good  things  with 
his  ugly  lips.  Verena  had  replies  for  a  good  many  of  them, 
and  a  pretty  colour  came  into  her  face  as  she  talked.  Olive 
could  see  that  she  produced  herself  quite  as  well  as  one  of 
these  gentlemen  had  foretold  the  other  that  she  would. 
Miss  Chancellor  knew  what  had  passed  between  them  as 
well  as  if  she  had  heard  it ;  Mr.  Gracie  had  promised  that 
he  would  lead  her  on,  that  she  should  justify  his  description 
and  prove  the  raciest  of  her  class.  They  would  laugh  about 
her  as  they  went  away,  lighting  their  cigars,  and  for  many 
days  afterwards  their  discourse  would  be  enlivened  with 
quotations  from  the  'women's  rights  girl.' 

It  was  amazing  how  many  ways  men  had  of  being  anti- 
pathetic ;  these  two  were  very  different  from  Basil  Ransom, 
and  different  from  each  other,  and  yet  the  manner  of  each 
conveyed  an  insult  •  to  one's  womanhood.  The  worst  of 
the  case  was  that  Verena  would  be  sure  not  to  perceive  this 
outrage — not  to  dislike  them  in  consequence.  There  were 
so  many  things  that  she  hadn't  yet  learned  to  dislike,  in 
spite  of  her  friend's  earnest  efforts  to  teach  her.  She  had 
the  idea  vividly  (that  was  the  marvel)  of  the  cruelty  of  man, 


xv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  121 

of  his  immemorial  injustice ;  but  it  remained  abstract, 
platonic ;  she  didn't  detest  him  in  consequence.  What 
was  the  use  of  her  having  that  sharp,  inspired  vision  of  the 
history  of  the  sex  (it  was,  as  she  had  said  herself,  exactly 
like  Joan  of  Arc's  absolutely  supernatural  apprehension  of 
the  state  of  France),  if  she  wasn't  going  to  carry  it  out,  if 
she  was  going  to  behave  as  the  ordinary  pusillanimous, 
conventional  young  lady  ?  It  was  all  very  well  for  her  to 
have  said  that  first  day  that  she  would  renounce  :  did  she 
look,  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  like  a  young  woman  who 
had  renounced  ?  Suppose  this  glittering,  laughing  Burrage 
youth,  with  his  chains  and  rings  and  shining  shoes,  should 
fall  in  love  with  her  and  try  to  bribe  her,  with  his  great 
possessions,  to  practise  renunciations  of  another  kind — to 
give  up  her  holy  work  and  to  go  with  him  to  New  York, 
there  to  live  as  his  wife,  partly  bullied,  partly  pampered,  in 
the  accustomed  Burrage  manner?  There  was  as  little 
comfort  for  Olive  as  there  had  been  on  the  whole  alarm  in 
the  recollection  of  that  off-hand  speech  of  Verena's  about 
her  preference  for  'free  unions.'  This  had  been  mere 
maiden  flippancy;  she  had  not  known  the  meaning  of 
what  she  said.  Though  she  had  grown  up  among  people 
who  took  for  granted  all  sorts  of  queer  laxities,  she  had 
kept  the  consummate  innocence  of  the  American  girl,  that 
innocence  which  was  the  greatest  of  all,  for  it  had  survived 
the  abolition  of  walls  and  locks ;  and  of  the  various  remarks 
that  had  dropped  from  Verena  expressing  this  quality 
that  startling  observation  certainly  expressed  it  most.  It 
implied,  at  any  rate,  that  unions  of  some  kind  or  other 
had  her  approval,  and  did  not  exclude  the  dangers  that 
might  arise  from  encounters  with  young  men  in  search  of 
sensations. 


XVL 

MR.  PARDON,  as  Olive  observed,  was  a  little  out  of  this 
combination ;  but  he  was  not  a  person  to  allow  himself  to 
droop.  He  came  and  seated  himself  by  Miss  Chancellor 
and  broached  a  literary  subject  •  he  asked  her  if  she  were 
following  any  of  the  current  'serials'  in  the  magazines. 
On  her  telling  him  that  she  never  followed  anything  of  that 
sort,  he  undertook  a  defence  of  the  serial  system,  which 
she  presently  reminded  him  that  she  had  not  attacked. 
He  was  not  discouraged  by  this  retort,  but  glided  gracefully 
off  to  the  question  of  Mount  Desert ;  conversation  on  some 
subject  or  other  being  evidently  a  necessity  of  his  nature. 
He  talked  very  quickly  and  softly,  with  words,  and  even 
sentences,  imperfectly  formed ;  there  was  a  certain  amiable 
flatness  in  his  tone,  and  he  abounded  in  exclamations — 
'  Goodness  gracious ! '  and  '  Mercy  on  us  ! ' — not  much  in 
use  among  the  sex  whose  profanity  is  apt  to  be  coarse. 
He  had  small,  fair  features,  remarkably  neat,  and  pretty 
eyes,  and  a  moustache  that  he  caressed,  and  an  air  of 
juvenility  much  at  variance  with  his  grizzled  locks,  and  the 
free  familiar  reference  in  which  he  was  apt  to  indulge  to  his 
career  as  a  journalist.  His  friends  knew  that  in  spite  of 
his  delicacy  and  his  prattle  he  was  what  they  called  a  live 
man ;  his  appearance  was  perfectly  reconcilable  with  a  large 
degree  of  literary  enterprise.  It  should  be  explained  that 
for  the  most  part  they  attached  to  this  idea  the  same 
meaning  as  Selah  Tarrant — a  state  of  intimacy  with  the 
newspapers,  the  cultivation  of  the  great  arts  of  publicity. 
For  this  ingenuous  son  of  his  age  all  distinction  between 
the  person  and  the  artist  had  ceased  to  exist ;  the  writer 
was  personal,  the  person  food  for  newsboys,  and  everything 
and  every  one  were  every  one's  business.  All  things,  with 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  123 

him,  referred  themselves  to  print,  and  print  meant  simply 
infinite  reporting,  a  promptitude  of  announcement,  abusive 
when  necessary,  or  even  when  not,  about  his  fellow-citizens. 
He  poured  contumely  on  their  private  life,  on  their  personal 
appearance,  with  the  best  conscience  in  the  world.  His 
faith,  again,  was  the  faith  of  Selah  Tarrant — that  being  in 
the  newspapers  is  a  condition  of  bliss,  and  that  it  would  be 
fastidious  to  question  the  terms  of  the  privilege.  He  was 
an  enfant  de  la  balk,  as  the  French  say ;  he  had  begun  his 
career,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  by  going  the  rounds  of  the 
hotels,  to  cull  flowers  from  the  big,  greasy  registers  which 
lie  on  the  marble  counters;  and  he  might  flatter  himself 
that  he  had  contributed  in  his  measure,  and  on  behalf  of  a 
vigilant  public  opinion,  the  pride  of  a  democratic  State,  to 
the  great  end  of  preventing  the  American  citizen  from 
attempting  clandestine  journeys.  Since  then  he  had 
ascended  other  steps  of  the  same  ladder ;  he  was  the  most 
brilliant  young  interviewer  on  the  Boston  press.  He  was 
particularly  successful  in  drawing  out  the  ladies;  he  had 
condensed  into  shorthand  many  of  the  most  celebrated 
women  of  his  time — some  of  these  daughters  of  fame  were 
very  voluminous — and  he  was  supposed  to  have  a  remark- 
ably insinuating  way  of  waiting  upon  prime  donne  and 
actresses  the  morning  after  their  arrival,  or  sometimes  the 
very  evening,  while  their  luggage  was  being  brought  up. 
He  was  only  twenty-eight  years  old,  and,  with  his  hoary 
head,  was  a  thoroughly  modern  young  man ;  he  had  no 
idea  of  not  taking  advantage  of  all  the  modern  con- 
veniences. He  regarded  the  mission  of  mankind  upon 
earth  as  a  perpetual  evolution  of  telegrams ;  everything  to 
him  was  very  much  the  same,  he  had  no  sense  of  proportion 
or  quality;  but  the  newest  thing  was  what  came  nearest 
exciting  in  his  mind  the  sentiment  of  respect.  He  was  an 
object  of  extreme  admiration  to  Selah  Tarrant,  who  believed 
that  he  had  mastered  all  the  secrets  of  success,  and  who, 
when  Mrs.  Tarrant  remarked  (as  she  had  done  more  than 
once)  that  it  looked  as  if  Mr.  Pardon  was  really  coming 
after  Verena,  declared  that  if  he  was,  he  was  one  of  the 
few  young  men  he  should  want  to  see  in  that  connection, 
one  of  the  few  he  should  be  willing  to  allow  to  handle  her. 


124  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvi. 

It  was  Tarrant's  conviction  that  if  Matthias  Pardon  should 
seek  Verena  in  marriage,  it  would  be  with  a  view  to  pro- 
ducing her  in  public;  and  the  advantage  for  the  girl  of 
having  a  husband  who  was  at  the  same  time  reporter, 
interviewer,  manager,  agent,  who  had  the  command  of  the 
principal  '  dailies,'  would  write  her  up  and  work  her,  as  it 
were,  scientifically — the  attraction  of  all  this  was  too  obvious 
to  be  insisted  on.  "  Matthias  had  a  mean  opinion  of 
Tarrant,  thought  him  quite  second-rate,  a  votary  of  played- 
out  causes.  It  was  his  impression  that  he  himself  was  in 
love  with  Verena,  but  his  passion  was  not  a  jealous  one, 
and  included  a  remarkable  disposition  to  share  the  object 
of  his  affection  with  the  American  people. 

He  talked  some  time  to  Olive  about  Mount  Desert,  told 
her  that  in  his  letters  he  had  described  the  company  at  the 
different  hotels.  He  remarked,  however,  that  a  corre- 
spondent suffered  a  good  deal  to-day  from  the  competition 
of  the  '  lady-writers ' ;  the  sort  of  article  they  produced  was 
sometimes  more  acceptable  to  the  papers.  He  supposed 
she  would  be  glad  to  hear  that — he  knew  she  was  so 
interested  in  woman's  having  a  free  field.  They  certainly 
made  lovely  correspondents;  they  picked  up  something 
bright  before  you  could  turn  round ;  there  wasn't  much 
you  could  keep  away  from  them ;  you  had  to  be  lively  if 
you  wanted  to  get  there  first.  Of  course,  they  were 
naturally  more  chatty,  and  that  was  the  style  of  literature 
that  seemed  to  take  most  to-day;  only  they  didn't  write 
much  but  what  ladies  would  want  to  read.  Of  course,  he 
knew  there  were  millions  of  lady-readers,  but  he  intimated 
that  he  didn't  address  himself  exclusively  to  the  gynecseum; 
he  tried  to  put  in  something  that  would  interest  all  parties. 
If  you  read  a  lady's  letter  you  knew  pretty  well  in  advance 
what  you  would  find.  Now,  what  he  tried  for  was  that 
you  shouldn't  have  the  least  idea ;  he  always  tried  to  have 
something  that  would  make  you  jump.  Mr.  Pardon  was 
not  conceited  more,  at  least,  than  is  proper  when  youth 
and  success  go  hand  in  hand,  and  it  was  natural  he  should 
not  know  in  what  spirit  Miss  Chancellor  listened  to  him. 
Being  aware  that  she  was  a  woman  of  culture  his  desire 
was  simply  to  supply  her  with  the  pabulum  that  she  would 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  125 

expect.  She  thought  him  very  inferior ;  she  had  heard  he 
was  intensely  bright,  but  there  was  probably  some  mistake ; 
there  couldn't  be  any  danger  for  Verena  from  a  mind  that 
took  merely  a  gossip's  view  of  great  tendencies.  Besides, 
he  wasn't  half  educated,  and  it  was  her  belief,  or  at  least 
her  hope,  that  an  educative  process  was  now  going  on  for 
Verena  (under  her  own  direction),  which  would  enable  her 
to  make  such  a  discovery  for  herself.  Olive  had  a  standing 
quarrel  with  the  levity,  the  good-nature,  of  the  judgments 
of  the  day;  many  of  them  seemed  to  her  weak  to  im- 
becility, losing  sight  of  all  measures  and  standards,  lavishing 
superlatives,  delighted  to  be  fooled  The  age  seemed  to 
her  relaxed  and  demoralised,  and  I  believe  she  looked  to 
the  influx  of  the  great  feminine  element  to  make  it  feel  and 
speak  more  sharply. 

'Well,  it's  a  privilege  to  hear  you  two  talk  together/ 
Mrs.  Tarrant  said  to  her  ;  l  it's  what  I  call  real  conversation. 
It  isn't  often  we  have  anything  so  fresh ;  it  makes  me  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  to  join  in.  I  scarcely  know  whom  to  listen 
to  most ;  Verena  seems  to  be  having  such  a  time  with  those 
gentlemen.  First  I  catch  one  thing  and  then  another;  it 
seems  as  if  I  couldn't  take  it  all  in.  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
pay  more  attention  to  Mr.  Burrage ;  I  don't  want  him  to 
think  we  are  not  so  cordial  as  they  are  in  New  York.' 

She  decided  to  draw  nearer  to  the  trio  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  for  she  had  perceived  (as  she  devoutly 
hoped  Miss  Chancellor  had  not),  that  Verena  was  endea- 
vouring to  persuade  either  of  her  companions  to  go  and 
talk  to  her  dear  friend,  and  that  these  unscrupulous  young 
men,  after  a  glance  over  their  shoulder,  appeared  to  plead 
for  remission,  to  intimate  that  this  was  not  what  they  had 
come  round  for.  Selah  wandered  out  of  the  room  again 
with  his  collection  of  cakes,  and  Mr.  Pardon  began  to  talk 
to  Olive  about  Verena,  to  say  that  he  felt  as  if  he  couldn't 
say  all  he  did  feel  with  regard  to  the  interest  she  had 
shown  in  her.  Olive  could  not  imagine  why  he  was  called 
upon  to  say  or  to  feel  anything,  and  she  gave  him  short 
answers ;  while  the  poor  young  man,  unconscious  of  his 
doom,  remarked  that  he  hoped  she  wasn't  going  to  exercise 
any  influence  that  would  prevent  Miss  Tarrant  from  taking 


126  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvi. 

the  rank  that  belonged  to  her.  He  thought  there  was  too 
much  hanging  back ;  he  wanted  to  see  her  in  a  front  seat ; 
he  wanted  to  see  her  name  in  the  biggest  kind  of  bills  and 
her  portrait  in  the  windows  of  the  stores.  She  had  genius, 
there  was  no  doubt  of  that,  and  she  would  take  a  new  line 
altogether.  She  had  charm,  and  there  was  a  great  demand 
for  that  nowadays  in  connection  with  new  ideas.  There 
were  so  many  that  seemed  to  have  fallen  dead  for  want  of 
it.  She  ought  to  be  carried  straight  ahead ;  she  ought  to 
walk  right  up  to  the  top.  There  was  a  want  of  bold 
action;  he  didn't  see  what  they  were  waiting  for.  He 
didn't  suppose  they  were  waiting  till  she  was  fifty  years 
old ;  there  were  old  ones  enough  in  the  field.  He  knew 
that  Miss  Chancellor  appreciated  the  advantage  of  her 
girlhood,  because  Miss  Verena  had  told  him  so.  Her  father 
was  dreadfully  slack,  and  the  winter  was  ebbing  away. 
Mr.  Pardon  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  Dr.  Tarrant  didn't 
see  his  way  to  do  something,  he  should  feel  as  if  he  should 
want  to  take  hold  himself.  He  expressed  a  hope  at  the 
same  time  that  Olive  had  not  any  views  that  would  lead 
her  to  bring  her  influence  to  bear  to  make  Miss  Verena 
hold  back ;  also  that  she  wouldn't  consider  that  he  pressed 
in  too  much.  He  knew  that  was  a  charge  that  people 
brought  against  newspaper-men — that  they  were  rather  apt 
to  cross  the  line.  He  only  worried  because  he  thought 
those  who  were  no  doubt  nearer  to  Miss  Verena  than  he 
could  hope  to  be  were  not  sufficiently  alive.  He  knew 
that  she  had  appeared  in  two  or  three  parlours  since  that 
evening  at  Miss  Birdseye's,  and  he  had  heard  of  the 
delightful  occasion  at  Miss  Chancellor's  own  house,  where 
so  many  of  the  first  families  had  been  invited  to  meet  her. 
(This  was  an  allusion  to  a  small  luncheon-party  that  Olive 
had  given,  when  Verena  discoursed  to  a  dozen  matrons 
and  spinsters,  selected  by  her  hostess  with  infinite  con- 
sideration and  many  spiritual  scruples ;  a  report  of  the 
affair,  presumably  from  the  hand  of  the  young  Matthias, 
who  naturally  had  not  been  present,  appeared  with  extra- 
ordinary promptness  in  an  evening-paper.)  That  was  very 
well  so  far  as  it  went,  but  he  wanted  something  on  another 
scale,  something  so  big  that  people  would  have  to  go  round 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  127 

if  they  wanted  to  get  past.  Then  lowering  his  voice  a 
little,  he  mentioned  what  it  was  :  a  lecture  in  the  Music 
Hall,  at  fifty  cents  a  ticket,  without  her  father,  right  there 
on  her  own  basis.  He  lowered  his  voice  still  more  and 
revealed  to  Miss  Chancellor  his  innermost  thought,  having 
first  assured  himself  that  Selah  was  still  absent  and  that 
Mrs.  Tarrant  was  inquiring  of  Mr.  Burrage  whether  he 
visited  much  on  the  new  land.  The  truth  was,  Miss 
Verena  wanted  to  '  shed '  her  father  altogether ;  she  didn't 
want  him  pawing  round  her  that  way  before  she  began ;  it 
didn't  add  in  the  least  to  the  attraction.  Mr.  Pardon  ex- 
pressed the  conviction  that  Miss  Chancellor  agreed  with  him 
in  this,  and  it  required  a  great  effort  of  mind  on  Olive's 
part,  so  small  was  her  desire  to  act  in  concert  with  Mr. 
Pardon,  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  did.  She  asked  him, 
with  a  certain  lofty  coldness — he  didn't  make  her  shy,  now, 
a  bit — whether  he  took  a  great  interest  in  the  improvement 
of  the  position  of  women.  The  question  appeared  to 
strike  the  young  man  as  abrupt  and  irrelevant,  to  come 
down  on  him  from  a  height  with  which  he  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  hold  intercourse.  He  was  used  to  quick  opera- 
tions, however,  and  he  had  only  a  moment  of  bright 
blankness  before  replying : 

'  Oh,  there  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  the  ladies ;  just 
give  me  a  chance  and  you'll  see.' 

Olive  was  silent  a  moment.  '  What  I  mean  is — is  your 
sympathy  a  sympathy  with  our  sex,  or  a  particular  interest 
in  Miss  Tarrant?' 

'  Well,  sympathy  is  just  sympathy — that's  all  I  can  say. 
It  takes  in  Miss  Verena  and  it  takes  in  all  others — except 
the  lady-correspondents,'  the  young  man  added,  with  a 
jocosity  which,  as  he  perceived  even  at  the  moment,  was 
lost  on  Verena's  friend.  He  was  not  more  successful 
when  he  went  on  :  'It  takes  in  even  you,  Miss  Chancellor!' 

Olive  rose  to  her  feet,  hesitating;  she  wanted  to  go 
away,  and  yet  she  couldn't  bear  to  leave  Verena  to  be 
exploited,  as  she  felt  that  she  would  be  after  her  departure, 
that  indeed  she  had  already  been,  by  those  offensive  young 
men.  She  had  a  strange  sense,  too,  that  her  friend  had 
neglected  her  for  the  last  half-hour,  had  not  been  occupied 


128  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvr. 

with  her,  had  placed  a  barrier  between  them — a  barrier  of 
broad  male  backs,  of  laughter  that  verged  upon  coarseness, 
of  glancing  smiles  directed  across  the  room,  directed  to 
Olive,  which  seemed  rather  to  disconnect  her  with  what 
was  going  forward  on  that  side  than  to  invite  her  to  take 
part  in  it.  If  Verena  recognised  that  Miss  Chancellor  was 
not  in  report,  as  her  father  said,  when  jocose  young  men 
ruled  the  scene,  the  discovery  implied  no  great  penetration ; 
but  the  poor  girl  might  have  reflected  further  that  to  see  it 
taken  for  granted  that  she  was  unadapted  for  such  company 
could  scarcely  be  more  agreeable  to  Olive  than  to  be 
dragged  into  it.  This  young  lady's  worst  apprehensions 
were  now  justified  by  Mrs.  Tarrant's  crying  to  her  that  she 
must  not  go,  as  Mr.  Burrage  and  Mr.  Gracie  were  trying 
to  persuade  Verena  to  give  them  a  little  specimen  of 
inspirational  speaking,  and  she  was  sure  her  daughter  would 
comply  in  a  moment  if  Miss  Chancellor  would  just  tell  her 
to  compose  herself.  They  had  got  to  own  up  to  it,  Miss 
Chancellor  could  do  more  with  her  than  any  one  else ;  but 
Mr.  Gracie  and  Mr.  Burrage  had  excited  her  so  that  she 
was  afraid  it  would  be  rather  an  unsuccessful  effort.  The 
whole  group  had  got  up,  and  Verena  came  to  Olive  with 
her  hands  outstretched  and  no  signs  of  a  bad  conscience 
in  her  bright  face. 

3 1  know  you  like  me  to  speak  so  much — I'll  try  to  say 
something  if  you  want  me  to.  But  I'm  afraid  there  are 
not  enough  people  ;  I  can't  do  much  with  a  small  audience.' 

'I  wish  we  had  brought  some  of  our  friends — they 
would  have  been  delighted  to  come  if  we  had  given  them 
a  chance/  said  Mr.  Burrage.  '  There  is  an  immense  desire 
throughout  the  University  to  hear  you,  and  there  is  no 
such  sympathetic  audience  as  an  audience  of  Harvard  men. 
OGracie  and  I  are  only  two,  but  Gracie  is  a  host  in  himself, 
and  I  am  sure  he  will  say  as  much  of  me.'  The  young 
man  spoke  these  words  freely  and  lightly,  smiling  at  Verena, 
and  even  a  little  at  Olive,  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  a 
mastery  of  clever  '  chaff '  was  commonly  attributed. 

'Mr.  Burrage  listens  even  better  than  he  talks/  his 
companion  declared.  '  We  have  the  habit  of  attention  at 
lectures,  you  know.  To  be  lectured  by  you  would  be  an 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  129 

advantage  indeed.  We  are  sunk  in  ignorance  and  pre- 
judice.' 

'  Ah,  my  prejudices/  Burrage  went  on ;  'if  you  could 
see  them — I  assure  you  they  are  something  monstrous  ! ' 

'Give  them  a  regular  ducking  and  make  them  gasp,' 
Matthias  Pardon  cried.  '  If  you  want  an  opportunity  to 
act  on  Harvard  College,  now's  your  chance.  These  gentle- 
men will  carry  the  news  j  it  will  be  the  narrow  end  of  the 
wedge.' 

*  I  can't  tell  what  you  like,'  Verena  said,  still  looking 
into  Olive's  eyes. 

'  I'm  sure  Miss  Chancellor  likes  everything  here,'  Mrs. 
Tarrant  remarked,  with  a  noble  confidence. 

Selah  had  reappeared  'by  this  time ;  his  lofty,  contem- 
plative person  was  framed  by  the  doorway.  '  Want  to  try 
a  little  inspiration?'  he  inquired,  looking  round  on  the 
circle  with  an  encouraging  inflection. 

'  I'll  do  it  alone,  if  you  prefer,'  Verena  said,  soothingly 
to  her  friend.  '  It  might  be  a  good  chance  to  try  without 
father.' 

'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  ain't  going  to  be  sup- 
ported ? '  Mrs.  Tarrant  exclaimed,  with  dismay. 

'Ah,  I  beseech  you,  give  us  the  whole  programme — 
don't  omit  any  leading  feature  ! '  Mr.  Burrage  was  heard  to 
plead. 

'  My  only  interest  is  to  draw  her  out,'  said  Selah,  de- 
fending his  integrity.  '  I  will  drop  right  out  if  I  don't 
seem  to  vitalise.  I  have  no  desire  to  draw  attention  to  my 
own  poor  gifts.'  This  declaration  appeared  to  be  addressed 
to  Miss  Chancellor. 

'  Well,  there  will  be  more  inspiration  if  you  don't  touch 
her,'  Matthias  Pardon  said  to  him.  '  It  will  seem  to  come 
right  down  from — well,  wherever  it  does  come  from.' 

'Yes,  we  don't  pretend  to  say  that,'  Mrs.  Tarrant 
murmured. 

This  little  discussion  had  brought  the  blood  to  Olive's 
face ;  she  felt  that  every  one  present  was  looking  at  her — 
Verena  most  of  all — and  that  here  was  a  chance  to  take  a 
more  complete  possession  of  the  girl.  Such  chances  were 
agitating ;  moreover,  she  didn't  like,  on  any  occasion,  to  be 


130  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvi. 

so  prominent.  But  everything  that  had  been  said  was 
benighted  and  vulgar ;  the  place  seemed  thick  with  the 
very  atmosphere  out  of  which  she  wished  to  lift  Verena. 
They  were  treating  her  as  a  show,  as  a  social  resource,  and 
the  two  young  men  from  the  College  were  laughing  at  her 
shamelessly.  She  was  not  meant  for  that,  and  Olive  would 
save  her.  Verena  was  so  simple,  she  couldn't  see  herself; 
she  was  the  only  pure  spirit  in  the  odious  group. 

'I  want  you  to  address  audiences  that  are  worth  addressing 
— to  convince  people  who  are  serious  and  sincere.'  Olive 
herself,  as  she  spoke,  heard  the  great  shake  in  her  voice. 
'  Your  mission  is  not  to  exhibit  yourself  as  a  pastime  for 
individuals,  but  to  touch  the  heart  of  communities,  of  nations.' 

'  Dear  madam,  I'm  sure  Miss  Tarrant  will  touch  my 
heart !'  Mr.  Burrage  objected,  gallantly. 

'Well,  I  don't  know  but  she  judges  you  young  men 
fairly,'  said  Mrs.  Tarrant,  with  a  sigh. 

Verena,  diverted  a  moment  from  her  communion  with 
her  friend,  considered  Mr.  Burrage  with  a  smile.  '  I 
don't  believe  you  have  got  any  heart,  and  I  shouldn't  care 
much  if  you  had  !' 

'You  have  no  idea  how  much  the  way  you  say  that 
increases  my  desire  to  hear  you  speak.' 

'  Do  as  you  please,  my  dear,'  said  Olive,  almost  inaudibly. 
'  My  carriage  must  be  there — I  must  leave  you,  in  any  case.' 

'  I  can  see  you  don't  want  it,'  said  Verena,  wondering. 
'  You  would  stay  if  you  liked  it,  wouldn't  you?' 

'  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do.  Come  out  with  me  !' 
Olive  spoke  almost  with  fierceness. 

'  Well,  you'll  send  them  away  no  better  than  they  came,' 
said  Matthias  Pardon. 

'  I  guess  you  had  better  come  round  some  other  night,' 
Selah  suggested  pacifically,  but  with  a  significance  which 
fell  upon  Olive's  ear. 

Mr.  Gracie  seemed  inclined  to  make  the  sturdiest 
protest.  '  Look  here,  Miss  Tarrant ;  do  you  want  to  save 
Harvard  College,  or  do  you  not?'  he  demanded,  with  a 
humorous  frown. 

4 1  didn't  know  you  were  Harvard  College ! '  Verena 
returned  as  humorously. 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  131 

'  I  am  afraid  you  are  rather  disappointed  in  your  evening 
if  you  expected  to  obtain  some  insight  into  our  ideas,'  said 
Mrs.  Tarrant,  with  an  air  of  impotent  sympathy,  to  Mr. 
Gracie. 

'Well,  good-night,  Miss  Chancellor,'  she  went  on  ;  'I 
hope  you've  got  a  warm  wrap.  I  suppose  you'll  think  we 
go  a  good  deal  by  what  you  say  in  this  house.  Well,  most 
people  don't  object  to  that.  There's  a  little  hole  right 
there  in  the  porch ;  it  seems  as  if  Doctor  Tarrant  couldn't 
remember  to  go  for  the  man  to  fix  it.  I  am  afraid  you'll 
think  we're  too  much  taken  up  with  all  these  new  hopes. 
Well,  we  have  enjoyed  seeing  you  in  our  home ;  it  quite 
raises  my  appetite  for  social  intercourse.  Did  you  come 
out  on  wheels  ?  I  can't  stand  a  sleigh  myself  j  it  makes 
me  sick.' 

This  was  her  hostess's  response  to  Miss  Chancellor's 
very  summary  farewell,  uttered  as  the  three  ladies  proceeded 
together  to  the  door  of  the  house.  Olive  had  got  herself 
out  of  the  little  parlour  with  a  sort  of  blind,  defiant  dash  ; 
she  had  taken  no  perceptible  leave  of  the  rest  of  the 
company.  When  she  was  calm  she  had  very  good  manners, 
but  when  she  was  agitated  she  was  guilty  of  lapses,  every 
one  of  which  came  back  to  her,  magnified,  in  the  watches 
of  the  night.  Sometimes  they  excited  remorse,  and  some- 
times triumph ;  in  the  latter  case  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  have  been  so  justly  vindictive  in  cold  blood.  Tarrant 
wished  to  guide  her  down  the  steps,  out  of  the  little  yard, 
to  her  carriage ;  he  reminded  her  that  they  had  had  ashes 
sprinkled  on  the  planks  on  purpose.  But  she  begged  him 
to  let  her  alone,  she  almost  pushed  him  back ;  she  drew 
Verena  out  into  the  dark  freshness,  closing  the  door  of  the 
house  behind  her.  There  was  a  splendid  sky,  all  blue-black 
and  silver — a  sparkling  wintry  vault,  where  the  stars  were 
like  a  myriad  points  of  ice.  The  air  was  silent  and  sharp, 
and  the  vague  snow  looked  cruel.  Olive  knew  now  very 
definitely  what  the  promise  was  that  she  wanted  Verena  to 
make ;  but  it  was  too  cold,  she  could  keep  her  there  bare- 
headed but  an  instant.  Mrs.  Tarrant,  meanwhile,  in  the 
parlour,  remarked  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  couldn't  trust 
Verena  with  her  own  parents;  and  Selah  intimated  that, 


132  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvi. 

with  a  proper  invitation,  his  daughter  would  be  very  happy 
to  address  Harvard  College  at  large.  Mr.  Burrage  and 
Mr.  Gracie  said  they  would  invite  her  on  the  spot,  in  the 
name  of  the  University ;  and  Matthias  Pardon  reflected 
(and  asserted)  with  glee  that  this  would  be  the  newest  thing 
yet.  But  he  added  that  they  would  have  a  high  time  with 
Miss  Chancellor  first,  and  this  was  evidently  the  conviction 
of  the  company. 

'  I  can  see  you  are  angry  at  something,'  Verena  said  to 
Olive,  as  the  two  stood  there  in  the  starlight.  '  I  hope  it 
isn't  me.  What  have  I  done  ?' 

'  I  am  not  angry — I  am  anxious.  I  am  so  afraid  I  shall 
lose  you.  Verena,  don't  fail  me — don't  fail  me  !'  Olive 
spoke  low,  with  a  kind  of  passion. 

'  Fail  you  ?     How  can  I  fail  ?' 

'  You  can't,  of  course  you  can't.  Your  star  is  above 
you.  But  don't  listen  to  them? 

1  To  whom  do  you  mean,  Olive  ?     To  my  parents  ?' 

'  Oh  no,  not  your  parents/  Miss  Chancellor  replied, 
with  some  sharpness.  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  she 
said  :  *  I  don't  care  for  your  parents.  I  have  told  you  that 
before ;  but  now  that  I  have  seen  them — as  they  wished, 
as  you  wished,  and  I  didn't — I  don't  care  for  them;  I 
must  repeat  it,  Verena.  I  should  be  dishonest  if  I  let  you 
think  I  did/ 

'Why,  Olive  Chancellor!'  Verena  murmured,  as  if  she 
were  trying,  in  spite  of  the  sadness  produced  by  this  declara- 
tion, to  do  justice  to  her  friend's  impartiality. 

1  Yes,  I  am  hard ;  perhaps  I  am  cruel ;  but  we  must  be 
hard  if  we  wish  to  triumph.  Don't  listen  to  young  men 
when  they  try  to  mock  and  muddle  you.  They  don't 
care  for  you ;  they  don't  care  for  us.  They  care  only  for 
their  pleasure,  for  what  they  believe  to  be  the  right  of  the 
stronger.  The  stronger  ?  I  am  not  so  sure  ! ' 

'  Some  of  them  care  so  much — are  supposed  to  care  too 
much — for  us,'  Verena  said,  with  a  smile  that  looked  dim 
in  the  darkness. 

'  Yes,  if  we  will  give  up  everything.     I  have  asked  you 
before — are  you  prepared  to  give  up?' 
'  Do  you  mean,  to  give  you  up  ?' 


xvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  133 

'  No,  all  our  wretched  sisters — all  our  hopes  and  purposes 
— all  that  we  think  sacred  and  worth  living  for  !' 

'  Oh,  they  don't  want  that,  Olive.'  Verena's  smile  be- 
came more  distinct,  and  she  added  :  '  They  don't  want  so 
much  as  that !' 

'Well,  then,  go  in  and  speak  for  them — and  sing  for 
them — and  dance  for  them  !' 

'  Olive,  you  are  cruel ! ' 

'  Yes,  I  am.  But  promise  me  one  thing,  and  I  shall  be 
— oh,  so  tender  !' 

'  What  a  strange  place  for  promises,'  said  Verena,  with 
a  shiver,  looking  about  her  into  the  night. 

'Yes,  I  am  dreadful;  I  know  it.  But  promise.'  And 
Olive  drew  the  girl  nearer  to  her,  flinging  over  her  with  one 
hand  the  fold  of  a  cloak  that  hung  ample  upon  her  own 
meagre  person,  and  holding  her  there  with  the  other,  while 
she  looked  at  her,  suppliant  but  half  hesitating.  'Promise!' 
she  repeated. 

'  Is  it  something  terrible  ?' 

'  Never  to  listen  to  one  of  them,  never  to  be  bribed ' 

At  this  moment  the  house-door  was  opened  again,  and 
the  light  of  the  hall  projected  itself  across  the  little  piazza. 
Matthias  Pardon  stood  in  the  aperture,  and  Tarrant  and 
his  wife,  with  the  two  other  visitors,  appeared  to  have  come 
forward  as  well,  to  see  what  detained  Verena. 

'  You  seem  to  have  started  a  kind  of  lecture  out  here,' 
Mr.  Pardon  said.  'You  ladies  had  better  look  out,  or 
you'll  freeze  together ! ' 

Verena  was  reminded  by  her  mother  that  she  would 
catch  her  death,  but  she  had  already  heard  sharply,  low  as 
they  were  spoken,  five  last  words  from  Olive,  who  now 
abruptly  released  her  and  passed  swiftly  over  the  path  from 
the  porch  to  her  waiting  carriage.  Tarrant  creaked  along, 
in  pursuit,  to  assist  Miss  Chancellor;  the  others  drew 
Verena  into  the  house.  '  Promise  me  not  to  marry  !' — that 
was  what  echoed  in  her  startled  mind,  and  repeated  itself 
there  when  Mr.  Burrage  returned  to  the  charge,  asking 
her  if  she  wouldn't  at  least  appoint  some  evening  when  they 
might  listen  to  her.  She  knew  that  Olive's  injunction 
ought  not  to  have  surprised  her ;  she  had  already  felt  it  in  the 


BOSTONIANS.  xvi. 


air  ;  she  would  have  said  at  any  time,  if  she  had  been  asked, 
that  she  didn't  suppose  Miss  Chancellor  would  want  her  to 
marry.  But  the  idea,  uttered  as  her  friend  had  uttered  it, 
had  a  new  solemnity,  and  the  effect  of  that  quick,  violent 
colloquy  was  to  make  her  nervous  and  impatient,  as  if  she 
had  had  a  sudden  glimpse  of  futurity.  That  was  rather 
awful,  even  if  it  represented  the  fate  one  would  like. 

When  the  two  young  men  from  the  College  pressed 
their  petition,  she  asked,  with  a  laugh  that  surprised  them, 
whether  they  wished  to  'mock  and  muddle'  her.  They 
went  away,  assenting  to  Mrs.  Tarrant's  last  remark  :  '  I  am 
afraid  you'll  feel  that  you  don't  quite  understand  us  yet.' 
Matthias  Pardon  remained;  her  father  and  mother,  ex- 
pressing their  perfect  confidence  that  he  would  excuse  them, 
went  to  bed  and  left  him  sitting  there.  He  stayed  a  good 
while  longer,  nearly  an  hour,  and  said  things  that  made 
Verena  think  that  he,  perhaps,  would  like  to  marry  her. 
But  while  she  listened  to  him,  more  abstractedly  than  her 
custom  was,  she  remarked  to  herself  that  there  could  be  no 
difficulty  in  promising  Olive  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
He  was  very  pleasant,  and  he  knew  an  immense  deal  about 
everything,  or,  rather,  about  every  one,  and  he  would  take 
her  right  into  the  midst  of  life.  But  she  didn't  wish  to 
marry  him,  all  the  same,  and  after  he  had  gone  she  reflected 
that,  once  she  came  to  think  of  it,  she  didn't  want  to  marry 
any  one.  So  it  would  be  easy,  after  all,  to  make  Olive  that 
promise,  and  it  would  give  her  so  much  pleasure  ! 


XVII. 

THE  next  time  Verena  saw  Olive,  she  said  to  her  that  she 
was  ready  to  make  the  promise  she  had  asked  the  other 
night;  but,  to  her  great  surprise,  this  young  woman  answered 
her  by  a  question  intended  to  check  such  rashness.  Miss 
Chancellor  raised  a  warning  finger ;  she  had  an  air  of  dis- 
suasion almost  as  solemn  as  her  former  pressure ;  her 
passionate  impatience  appeared  to  have  given  way  to  other 
considerations,  to  be  replaced  by  the  resignation  that  comes 
with  deeper  reflection.  It  was  tinged  in  this  case,  indeed, 
by  such  bitterness  as  might  be  permitted  to  a  young  lady 
who  cultivated  the  brightness  of  a  great  faith. 

1  Don't  you  want  any  promise  at  present  ?'  Verena  asked. 
'Why,  Olive,  how  you  change  !' 

'  My  dear  child,  you  are  so  young — so  strangely  young. 
I  am  a  thousand  years  old ;  I  have  lived  through  generations 
— through  centuries.  I  know  what  I  know  by  experience ; 
you  know  it  by  imagination.  That  is  consistent  with  your 
being  the  fresh,  bright  creature  that  you  are.  I  am 
constantly  forgetting  the  difference  between  us — that  you 
are  a  mere  child  as  yet,  though  a  child  destined  for  great 
things.  I  forgot  it  the  other  night,  but  I  have  remembered 
it  since.  You  must  pass  through  a  certain  phase,  and  it 
would  be  very  wrong  in  me  to  pretend  to  suppress  it. 
That  is  all  clear  to  me  now ;  I  see  it  was  my  jealousy  that 
spoke — my  restless,  hungry  jealousy.  I  have  far  too  much 
of  that ;  I  oughtn't  to  give  any  one  the  right  to  say  that 
it's  a  woman's  quality.  I  don't  want  your  signature ;  I  only 
want  your  confidence — only  what  springs  from  that.  I 
hope  with  all  my  soul  that  you  won't  marry;  but  if  you 
don't  it  must  not  be  because  you  have  promised  me.  You 
know  what  I  think — that  there  is  something  noble  done 


136  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvn. 

when  one  makes  a  sacrifice  for  a  great  good.  Priests — 
when  they  were  real  priests — never  married,  and  what  you 
and  I  dream  of  doing  demands  of  us  a  kind  of  priesthood. 
It  seems  to  me  very  poor,  when  friendship  and  faith  and 
charity  and  the  most  interesting  occupation  in  the  world — 
when  such  a  combination  as  this  doesn't  seem,  by  itself, 
enough  to  live  for.  No  man  that  I  have  ever  seen  cares  a 
straw  in  his  heart  for  what  we  are  trying  to  accomplish. 
They  hate  it ;  they  scorn  it ;  they  will  try  to  stamp  it  out 
whenever  they  can.  Oh  yes,  I  know  there  are  men  who 
pretend  to  care  for  it ;  but  they  are  not  really  men,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  sure  even  of  them  !  Any  man  that  one  would 
look  at — with  him,  as  a  matter  of  course,  it  is  war  upon  us 
to  the  knife.  I  don't  mean  to  say  there  are  not  some  male 
beings  who  are  willing  to  patronise  us  a  little ;  to  pat  us  on 
the  back  and  recommend  a  few  moderate  concessions ;  to 
say  that  there  are  two  or  three  little  points  in  which  society 
has  not  been  quite  just  to  us.  But  any  man  who  pretends 
to  accept  our  programme  ///  toto^  as  you  and  I  understand  it, 
of  his  own  free  will,  before  he  is  forced  to — such  a  person 
simply  schemes  to  betray  us.  There  are  gentlemen  in 
plenty  who  would  be  glad  to  stop  your  mouth  by  kissing 
you  !  If  you  become  dangerous  some  day  to  their  selfish- 
ness, to  their  vested  interests,  to  their  immorality — as  I 
pray  heaven  every  day,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  may  ! — it 
will  be  a  grand  thing  for  one  of  them  if  he  can  persuade 
you  that  he  loves  you.  Then  you  will  see  what  he  will  do 
with  you,  and  how  far  his  love  will  take  him  !  It  would  be 
a  sad  day  for  you  and  for  me  and  for  all  of  us,  if  you  were  to 
believe  something  of  that  kind.  You  see  I  am  very  calm 
now;  I  have  thought  it  all  out.' 

Verena  had  listened  with  earnest  eyes.  'Why,  Olive, 
you  are  quite  a  speaker  yourself  1'  she  exclaimed.  'You 
would  far  surpass  me  if  you  would  let  yourself  go.' 

Miss  Chancellor  shook  her  head  with  a  melancholy  that 
was  not  devoid  of  sweetness.  *  I  can  speak  to  you ;  but 
that  is  no  proof.  The  very  stones  of  the  street — all  the 
dumb  things  of  nature — might  find  a  voice  to  talk  to  you. 
I  have  no  facility;  I  am  awkward  and  embarrassed  and 
dry.'  When  this  young  lady,  after  a  struggle  with  the  winds 


xvil.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  137 

and  waves  of  emotion,  emerged  into  the  quiet  stream  of  a 
certain  high  reasonableness,  she  presented  her  most  graceful 
aspect ;  she  had  a  tone  of  softness  and  sympathy,  a  gentle 
dignity,  a  serenity  of  wisdom,  which  sealed  the  appreciation 
of  those  who  knew  her  well  enough  to  like  her,  and  which 
always  impressed  Verena  as  something  almost  august. 
Such  moods,  however,  were  not  often  revealed  to  the 
public  at  large  ;  they  belonged  to  Miss  Chancellor's  very 
private  life.  One  of  them  had  possession  of  her  at  present, 
and  she  went  on  to  explain  the  inconsequence  which  had 
puzzled  her  friend  with  the  same  quiet  clearness,  the 
detachment  from  error,  of  a  woman  whose  self-scrutiny  has 
been  as  sharp  as  her  deflection. 

'Don't  think  me  capricious  if  I  say  I  would  rather 
trust  you  without  a  pledge.  I  owe  you,  I  owe  every  one,  an 
apology  for  my  rudeness  and  fierceness  at  your  mother's. 
It  came  over  me — just  seeing  those  young  men — how  ex- 
posed you  are ;  and  the  idea  made  me  (for  the  moment) 
frantic.  I  see  your  danger  still,  but  I  see  other  things  too, 
and  I  have  recovered  my  balance.  You  must  be  safe, 
Verena — you  must  be  saved;  but  your  safety  must  not 
come  from  your  having  tied  your  hands.  It  must  come  from 
the  growth  of  your  perception ;  from  your  seeing  things,  of 
yourself,  sincerely  and  with  conviction,  in  the  light  in  which 
I  see  them ;  from  your  feeling  that  for  your  work  your  free- 
dom is  essential,  and  that  there  is  no  freedom  for  you  and 
me  save  in  religiously  not  doing  what  you  will  often  be 
asked  to  do — and  I  never!'  Miss  Chancellor  brought  out 
these  last  words  with  a  proud  jerk  which  was  not  without 
its  pathos.  '  Don't  promise,  don't  promise  ! '  she  went  on. 
'  I  would  far  rather  you  didn't.  But  don't  fail  me — don't 
fail  me,  or  I  shall  die ! ' 

Her  manner  of  repairing  her  inconsistency  was  altogether 
feminine  :  she  wished  to  extract  a  certainty  at  the  same 
time  that  she  wished  to  deprecate  a  pledge,  and  she  would 
have  been  delighted  to  put  Verena  into  the  enjoyment  of 
that  freedom  which  was  so  important  for  her  by  preventing 
her  exercising  it  in  a  particular  direction.  The  girl  was 
now  completely  under  her  influence ;  she  had  latent 
curiosities  and  distractions — left  to  herself,  she  was  not 


138  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvn. 

always  thinking  of  the  unhappiness  of  women ;  but  the 
touch  of  Olive's  tone  worked  a  spell,  and  she  found  some- 
thing to  which  at  least  a  portion  of  her  nature  turned  with 
eagerness  in  her  companion's  wider  knowledge,  her  elevation 
of  view.  Miss  Chancellor  was  historic  and  philosophic  ; 
or,  at  any  rate,  she  appeared  so  to  Verena,  who  felt  that 
through  such  an  association  one  might  at  last  intellectually 
command  all  life.  And  there  was  a  simpler  impulse ; 
Verena  wished  to  please  her  if  only  because  she  had  such  a 
dread  of  displeasing  her.  Olive's  displeasures,  disappoint- 
ments, disapprovals  were  tragic,  truly  memorable ;  she  grew 
white  under  them,  not  shedding  many  tears,  as  a  general 
thing,  like  inferior  women  (she  cried  when  she  was  angry, 
not  when  she  was  hurt),  but  limping  and  panting,  morally, 
as  if  she  had  received  a  wound  that  she  would  carry  for 
life.  On  the  other  hand,  her  commendations,  her  satisfac- 
tions were  as  soft  as  a  west  wind  ;  and  she  had  this  sign, 
the  rarest  of  all,  of  generosity,  that  she  liked  obligations  of 
gratitude  when  they  were  not  laid  upon  her  by  men.  Then, 
indeed,  she  scarcely  recognised  them.  She  considered 
men  in  general  as  so  much  in  the  debt  of  the  opposite  sex 
that  any  individual  woman  had  an  unlimited  credit  with 
them ;  she  could  not  possibly  overdraw  the  general  feminine 
account.  The  unexpected  temperance  of  her  speech  on 
this  subject  of  Verena's  accessibility  to  matrimonial  error 
seemed  to  the  girl  to  have  an  antique  beauty,  a  wisdom 
purged  of  worldly  elements  ;  it  reminded  her  of  qualities 
that  she  believed  to  have  been  proper  to  Electra  or  Anti- 
gone. This  made  her  wish  the  more  to  do  something  that 
would  gratify  Olive ;  and  in  spite  of  her  friend's  dissuasion 
she  declared  that  she  should  like  to  promise.  'I  will 
promise,  at  any  rate,  not  to  marry  any  of  those  gentlemen 
that  were  at  the  house,'  she  said.  '  Those  seemed  to  be 
the  ones  you  were  principally  afraid  of.' 

'  You  will  promise  not  to  marry  any  one  you  don't  like,' 
said  Olive.     *  That  would  be  a  great  comfort ! ' 
'  But  I  do  like  Mr.  Burrage  and  Mr.  Grade.' 
1  And  Mr.  Matthias  Pardon?     What  a  name  !' 
'  Well,  he  knows  how  to  make  himself  agreeable.     He 
can  tell  you  everything  you  want  to  know.' 


xvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  139 

'  You  mean  everything  you  don't  !  Well,  if  you  like 
every  one,  I  haven't  the  least  objection.  It  would  only  be 
preferences  that  I  should  find  alarming.  I  am  not  the 
least  afraid  of  your  marrying  a  repulsive  man  ;  your  danger 
would  come  from  an  attractive  one.' 

'  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  admit  that  some  are  attractive  ! ' 
Verena  exclaimed,  with  the  light  laugh  which  her  reverence 
for  Miss  Chancellor  had  not  yet  quenched.  '  It  sometimes 
seems  as  if  there  weren't  any  you  could  like ! ' 

'  I  can  imagine  a  man  I  should  like  very  much/  Olive 
replied,  after  a  moment.  '  But  I  don't  like  those  I  see. 
They  seem  to  me  poor  creatures.'  And,  indeed,  her 
uppermost  feeling  in  regard  to  them  was  a  kind  of  cold 
scorn;  she  thought  most  of  them  palterers  and  bullies. 
The  end  of  the  colloquy  was  that  Verena,  having  assented, 
with  her  usual  docility,  to  her  companion's  optimistic  con- 
tention that  it  was  a  '  phase,'  this  taste  for  evening-calls 
from  collegians  and  newspaper-men,  and  would  consequently 
pass  away  with  the  growth  of  her  mind,  remarked  that  the 
injustice  of  men  might  be  an  accident  or  might  be  a  part 
of  their  nature,  but  at  any  rate  she  should  have  to  change 
a  good  deal  before  she  should  want  to  marry. 

About  the  middle  of  December,  Miss  Chancellor  re- 
ceived a  visit  from  Matthias  Pardon,  who  had  come  to  ask 
her  what  she  meant  to  do  about  Verena.  She  had  never 
invited  him  to  call  upon  her,  and  the  appearance  of  a 
gentleman  whose  desire  to  see  her  was  so  irrepressible  as  to 
dispense  with  such*  a  preliminary  was  not  in  her  career  an 
accident  frequent  enough  to  have  taught  her  equanimity. 
She  thought  Mr.  Pardon's  visit  a  liberty;  but,  if  she  ex- 
pected to  convey  this  idea  to  him  by  withholding  any  sug- 
gestion that  he  should  sit  down,  she  was  greatly  mistaken, 
inasmuch  as  he  cut  the  ground  from  under  her  feet  by 
himself  offering  her  a  chair.  His  manner  represented 
hospitality  enough  for  both  of  them,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
listen,  on  the  edge  of  her  sofa  (she  could  at  least  seat  her- 
self where  she  liked),  to  his  extraordinary  inquiry.  Of 
course  she  was  not  obliged  to  answer  it,  and  indeed  she 
scarcely  understood  it  He  explained  that  it  was  prompted 
by  the  intense  interest  he  felt  in  Miss  Verena ;  but  that 


140  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvn. 

scarcely  made  it  more  comprehensible,  such  a  sentiment 
(on  his  part)  being  such  a  curious  mixture.  He  had  a  sort 
of  enamel  of  good  humour  which  showed  that  his  indelicacy 
was  his  profession ;  and  he  asked  for  revelations  of  the  vie 
intime  of  his  victims  with  the  bland  confidence  of  a  fashion- 
able physician  inquiring  about  symptoms.  He  wanted  to 
know  what  Miss  Chancellor  meant  to  do,  because  if  she 
didn't  mean  to  do  anything,  he  had  an  idea — which  he 
wouldn't  conceal  from  her — of  going  into  the  enterprise 
himself.  '  You  see,  what  I  should  like  to  know  is  this  :  do 
you  consider  that  she  belongs  to  you,  or  that  she  belongs 
to  the  people  ?  If  she  belongs  to  you,  why  don't  you  bring 
her  out?' 

He  had  no  purpose  and  no  consciousness  of  being 
impertinent ;  he  only  wished  to  talk  over  the  matter  soci- 
ably with  Miss  Chancellor.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  there 
was  a  presumption  she  would  not  be  sociable,  but  no 
presumption  had  yet  deterred  him  from  presenting  a  surface 
which  he  believed  to  be  polished  till  it  shone ;  there  was 
always  a  larger  one  in  favour  of  his  power  to  penetrate  and 
of  the  majesty  of  the  'great  dailies.'  Indeed,  he  took  so 
many  things  for  granted  that  Olive  remained  dumb  while 
she  regarded  them ;  and  he  availed  himself  of  what  he 
considered  as  a  fortunate  opening  to  be  really  very  frank. 
He  reminded  her  that  he  had  known  Miss  Verena  a  good 
deal  longer  than  she ;  he  had  travelled  out  to  Cambridge 
the  other  winter  (when  he  could  get  an  off-night),  with  the 
thermometer  at  ten  below  zero.  He  had  always  thought 
her  attractive,  but  it  wasn't  till  this  season  that  his  eyes  had 
been  fully  opened.  Her  talent  had  matured,  and  now  he 
had  no  hesitation  in  calling  her  brilliant.  Miss  Chancellor 
could  imagine  whether,  as  an  old  friend,  he  could  watch 
such  a  beautiful  unfolding  with  indifference.  She  would 
fascinate  the  people,  just  as  she  had  fascinated  her  (Miss 
Chancellor),  and,  he  might  be  permitted  to  add,  himself. 
The  fact  was,  she  was  a  great  card,  and  some  one  ought  to 
play  it.  There  never  had  been  a  more  attractive  female 
speaker  before  the  American  public ;  she  would  walk  right 
past  Mrs.  Farrinder,  and  Mrs.  Farrinder  knew  it.  There 
was  room  for  both,  no  doubt,  they  had  such  a  different 


xvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  141 

style ;  anyhow,  what  he  wanted  to  show  was  that  there  was 
room  for  Miss  Verena.  She  didn't  want  any  more  tuning- 
up,  she  wanted  to  break  right  out.  Moreover,  he  felt  that 
any  gentleman  who  should  lead  her  to  success  would  win 
her  esteem ;  he  might  even  attract  her  more  powerfully — 
who  could  tell  ?  If  Miss  Chancellor  wanted  to  attach  her 
permanently,  she  ought  to  push  her  right  forward.  He 
gathered  from  what  Miss  Verena  had  told  him  that  she 
wanted  to  make  her  study  up  the  subject  a  while  longer — 
follow  some  kind  of  course.  Well,  now,  he  could  assure 
her  that  there  was  no  preparation  so  good  as  just  seeing  a 
couple  of  thousand  people  down  there  before  you  who  have 
paid  their  money  to  have  you  tell  them  something.  Miss 
Verena  was  a  natural  genius,  and  he  hoped  very  much  she 
wasn't  going  to  take  the  nature  out  of  her.  She  could 
study  up  as  she  went  along ;  she  had  got  the  great  thing 
that  you  couldn't  learn,  a  kind  of  divine  afflatus,  as  the 
ancients  used  to  say,  and  she  had  better  just  begin  on  that. 
He  wouldn't  deny  what  was  the  matter  with  him;  he  was  quite 
under  the  spell,  and  his  admiration  made  him  want  to  see 
her  where  she  belonged.  He  shouldn't  care  so  much  how 
she  got  there,  but  it  would  certainly  add  to  his  pleasure  if 
he  could  show  her  up  to  her  place.  Therefore,  would  Miss 
Chancellor  just  tell  him  this  :  How  long  did  she  expect  to 
hold  her  back  •  how  long  did  she  expect  a  humble  admirer 
to  wait  ?  Of  course  he  hadn't  come  there  to  cross-question 
her ;  there  was  one  thing  he  trusted  he  always  kept  clear 
of;  when  he  was  indiscreet  he  wanted  to  know  it.  He 
had  come  with  a  proposal  of  his  own,  and  he  hoped  it 
would  seem  a  sufficient  warrant  for  his  visit.  Would  Miss 
Chancellor  be  willing  to  divide  a — the — well,  he  might  call 
it  the  responsibilities?  Couldn't  they  run  Miss  Verena 
together  ?  In  this  case,  every  one  would  be  satisfied.  She 
could  travel  round  with  her  as  her  companion,  and  he  would 
see  that  the  American  people  walked  up.  If  Miss  Chan- 
cellor would  just  let  her  go  a  little,  he  would  look  after  the 
rest.  He  wanted  no  odds ;  he  only  wanted  her  for  about 
an  hour  and  a  half  three  or  four  evenings  a  week. 

Olive  had  time,  in  the  course  of  this  appeal,  to  make 
her  faculties  converge,  to  ask  herself  what  she  could  say  to 


142  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvn. 

this  prodigious  young  man  that  would  make  him  feel  as 
how  base  a  thing  she  held  his  proposal  that  they  should 
constitute  themselves  into  a  company  for  drawing  profit 
from  Verena.  Unfortunately,  the  most  sarcastic  inquiry 
that  could  occur  to  her  as  a  response  was  also  the  most 
obvious  one,  so  that  he  hesitated  but  a  moment  with  his 
rejoinder  after  she  had  asked  him  how  many  thousands  of 
dollars  he  expected  to  make. 

'  For  Miss  Verena  ?  It  depends  upon  the  time.  She'd 
run  for  ten  years,  at  least.  I  can't  figure  it  up  till  all  the 
States  have  been  heard  from,'  he  said,  smiling. 

f  I  don't  mean  for  Miss  Tarrant,  I  mean  for  you/  Olive 
returned,  with  the  impression  that  she  was  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eye. 

'  Oh,  as  many  as  you'll  leave  me !'  Matthias  Pardon 
answered,  with  a  laugh  that  contained  all,  and  more  than 
all,  the  jocularity  of  the  American  press.  'To  speak 
seriously,'  he  added,  '  I  don't  want  to  make  money  out 
of  it' 

'What  do  you  want  to  make,  then ?' 

'  Well,  I  want  to  make  history !  I  want  to  help  the 
ladies.' 

'The  ladies?'  Olive  murmured.  'What  do  you  know 
about  ladies?'  she  was  on  the  point  of  adding,  when  his 
promptness  checked  her. 

'  All  over  the  world.  I  want  to  work  for  their  eman- 
cipation. I  regard  it  as  the  great  modern  question.' 

Miss  Chancellor  got  up  now ;  this  was  rather  too  strong. 
Whether,  eventually,  she  was  successful  in  what  she 
attempted,  the  reader  of  her  history  will  judge ;  but  at  this 
moment  she  had  not  that  promise  of  success  which  resides 
in  a  willingness  to  make  use  of  every  aid  that  offers.  Such 
is  the  penalty  of  being  of  a  fastidious,  exclusive,  uncompro- 
mising nature  ;  of  seeing  things  not  simply  and  sharply,  but 
in  perverse  relations,  in  intertwisted  strands.  It  seemed  to 
our  young  lady  that  nothing  could  be  less  attractive  than  to 
owe  her  emancipation  to  such  a  one  as  Matthias  Pardon ; 
and  it  is  curious  that  those  qualities  which  he  had  in 
common  with  Verena,  and  which  in  her  seemed  to  Olive 
romantic  and  touching  —  her  having  sprung  from  the 


xvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  143 

'  people,'  had  an  acquaintance  with  poverty,  a  hand-to- 
mouth  development,  and  an  experience  of  the  seamy  side 
of  life — availed  in  no  degree  to  conciliate  Miss  Chancellor. 
I  suppose  it  was  because  he  was  a  man.  She  told  him  that 
she  was  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  offer,  but  that  he 
evidently  didn't  understand  Verena  and  herself.  No,  not 
even  Miss  Tarrant,  in  spite  of  his  long  acquaintance  with 
her.  They  had  no  desire  to  be  notorious ;  they  only 
wanted  to  be  useful.  They  had  no  wish  to  make  money  ; 
there  would  always  be  plenty  of  money  for  Miss  Tarrant. 
Certainly,  she  should  come  before  the  public,  and  the 
world  would  acclaim  her  and  hang  upon  her  words ;  but 
crude,  precipitate  action  was  what  both  of  them  least 
desired.  The  change  in  the  dreadful  position  of  women 
was  not  a  question  for  to-day  simply,  or  for  to-morrow,  but 
for  many  years  to  come ;  and  there  would  be  a  great  deal 
to  think  of,  to  map  out.  One  thing  they  were  determined 
upon — that  men  shouldn't  taunt  them  with  being  superficial. 
When  Verena  should  appear  it  would  be  armed  at  all 
points,  like  Joan  of  Arc  (this  analogy  had  lodged  itself  in 
Olive's  imagination);  she  should  have  facts  and  figures; 
she  should  meet  men  on  their  own  ground.  'What  we 
mean  to  do,  we  mean  to  do  well,'  Miss  Chancellor  said  to 
her  visitor,  with  considerable  sternness ;  leaving  "him  to 
make  such  an  application  to  himself  as  his  fancy  might 
suggest. 

This  announcement  had  little  comfort  for  him ;  he  felt 
baffled  and  disheartened — indeed,  quite  sick.  Was  it  not 
sickening  to  hear  her  talk  of  this  dreary  process  of  prepara- 
tion?— as  if  any  one  cared  about  that,  and  would  know 
whether  Verena  were  prepared  or  not !  Had  Miss  Chan- 
cellor no  faith  in  her  girlhood  ?  didn't  she  know  what  a 
card  that  would  be?  This  was  the  last  inquiry  Olive 
allowed  him  the  opportunity  of  making.  She  remarked  to 
him  that  they  might  talk  for  ever  without  coming  to  an 
agreement — their  points  of  view  were  so  far  apart.  Besides, 
it  was  a  woman's  question;  what  they  wanted  was  for 
women,  and  it  should  be  by  women.  It  had  happened  to 
the  young  Matthias  more  than  once  to  be  shown  the  way  to 
the  door,  but  the  path  of  retreat  had  never  yet  seemed  to 


144  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvn. 

him  so  unpleasant.  He  was  naturally  amiable,  but  it  had 
not  hitherto  befallen  him  to  be  made  to  feel  that  he  was 
not — and  could  not  be — a  factor  in  contemporary  history  : 
here  was  a  rapacious  woman  who  proposed  to  keep  that 
tavourable  setting  for  herself.  He  let  her  know  that  she 
was  right-down  selfish,  and  that  if  she  chose  to  sacrifice  a 
beautiful  nature  to  her  antediluvian  theories  and  love  of 
power,  a  vigilant  daily  press — whose  business  it  was  to 
expose  wrong-doing — would  demand  an  account  from  her. 
She  replied  that,  if  the  newspapers  chose  to  insult  her,  that 
was  their  own  affair ;  one  outrage  the  more  to  the  sex  in 
her  person  was  of  little  account.  And  after  he  had  left  her 
she  seemed  to  see  the  glow  of  dawning  success ;  the  battle 
had  begun,  and  something  of  the  ecstasy  of  the  martyr. 


XVIII. 

VERENA  told  her,  a  week  after  this,  that  Mr.  Pardon  wanted 
so  much  she  should  say  she  would  marry  him ;  and  she 
added,  with  evident  pleasure  at  being  able  to  give  her  so 
agreeable  a  piece  of  news,  that  she  had  declined  to  say 
anything  of  the  sort.  She  thought  that  now,  at  least,  Olive 
must  believe  in  her ;  for  the  proposal  was  more  attractive 
than  Miss  Chancellor  seemed  able  to  understand.  'He 
does  place  things  in  a  very  seductive  light,'  Verena  said ; 
'  he  says  that  if  I  become  his  wife  I  shall  be  carried  straight 
along  by  a  force  of  excitement  of  which  at  present  I  have 
no  idea.  I  shall  wake  up  famous,  if  I  marry  him ;  I  have 
only  got  to  give  out  my  feelings,  and  he  will  take  care  of 
the  rest.  He  says  every  hour  of  my  youth  is  precious  to 
me,  and  that  we  should  have  a  lovely  time  travelling  round 
the  country.  I  think  you  ought  to  allow  that  all  that  is 
rather  dazzling — for  I  am  not  naturally  concentrated,  like 
you !' 

'  He  promises  you  success.  What  do  you  call  success?' 
Olive  inquired,  looking  at  her  friend  with  a  kind  of  salutary 
coldness — a  suspension  of  sympathy — with  which  Verena 
was  now  familiar  (though  she  liked  it  no  better  than  at 
first),  and  which  made  approbation  more  gracious  when 
approbation  came. 

Verena  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  smiling, 
but  with  confidence :  '  Producing  a  pressure  that  shall  be 
irresistible.  Causing  certain  laws  to  be  repealed  by  Con- 
gress and  by  the  State  legislatures,  and  others  to  be  enacted.' 
She  repeated  the  words  as  if  they  had  been  part  of  a 
catechism  committed  to  memory,  while  Olive  saw  that  this 
mechanical  tone  was  in  the  nature  of  a  joke  that  she  could 
not  deny  herself;  they  had  had  that  definition  so  often 


146  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvm. 

before,  and  Miss  Chancellor  had  had  occasion  so  often  to 
remind  her  what  success  really  was.  Of  course  it  was  easy 
to  prove  to  her  now  that  Mr.  Pardon's  glittering  bait  was  a 
very  different  thing ;  was  a  mere  trap  and  lure,  a  bribe  to 
vanity  and  impatience,  a  device  for  making  her  give  herself 
away — let  alone  fill  his  pockets  while  she  did  so.  Olive 
was  conscious  enough  of  the  girl's  want  of  continuity ;  she 
had  seen  before  how  she  could  be  passionately  serious  at 
times,  and  then  perversely,  even  if  innocently,  trivial — as 
just  now,  when  she  seemed  to  wish  to  convert  one  of  their 
most  sacred  formulas  into  a  pleasantry.  She  had  already 
quite  recognised,  however,  that  it  was  not  of  importance 
that  Verena  should  be  just  like  herself;  she  was  all  of  one 
piece,  and  Verena  was  of  many  pieces,  which  had,  where 
they  fitted  together,  little  capricious  chinks,  through  which 
mocking  inner  lights  seemed  sometimes  to  gleam.  It  was 
a  part  of  Verena's  being  unlike  her  that  she  should  feel  Mr. 
Pardon's  promise  of  eternal  excitement  to  be  a  brilliant 
thing,  should  indeed  consider  Mr.  Pardon  with  any  toler- 
ance at  all.  But  Olive  tried  afresh  to  allow  for  such 
aberrations,  as  a  phase  of  youth  and  suburban  culture ; 
the  more  so  that,  even  when  she  tried  most,  Verena 
reproached  her — so  far  as  Verena's  incurable  softness  could 
reproach — with  not  allowing  enough.  Olive  didn't  appear 
to  understand  that,  while  Matthias  Pardon  drew  that 
picture  and  tried  to  hold  her  hand  (this  image  was  unfor- 
tunate), she  had  given  one  long,  fixed,  wistful  look,  through 
the  door  he  opened,  at  the  bright  tumult  of  the  world,  and 
then  had  turned  away,  solely  for  her  friend's  sake,  to  an 
austerer  probation  and  a  purer  effort;  solely  for  her  friend's, 
that  is,  and  that  of  the  whole  enslaved  sisterhood.  The 
fact  remained,  at  any  rate,  that  Verena  had  made  a 
sacrifice;  and  this  thought,  after  a  while,  gave  Olive  a 
greater  sense  of  security.  It  seemed  almost  to  seal  the 
future ;  for  Olive  knew  that  the  young  interviewer  would 
not  easily  be  shaken  off,  and  yet  she  was  sure  that  Verena 
would  never  yield  to  him. 

It  was  true  that  at  present  Mr.  Burrage  came  a  great 
deal  to  the  little  house  at  Cambridge;  Verena  told  her 
about  that,  told  her  so  much  that  it  was  almost  as  good  as 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  147 

if  she  had  told  her  all.  He  came  without  Mr.  Grade  now; 
he  could  find  his  way  alone,  and  he  seemed  to  wish  that 
there  should  be  no  one  else.  He  had  made  himself  so 
pleasant  to  her  mother  that  she  almost  always  went  out  of 
the  room ;  that  was  the  highest  proof  Mrs.  Tarrant  could 
give  of  her  appreciation  of  a  '  gentleman  -caller.'  They 
knew  everything  about  him  by  this  time ;  that  his  father 
was  dead,  his  mother  very  fashionable  and  prominent,  and 
he  himself  in  possession  of  a  handsome  patrimony.  They 
thought  ever  so  much  of  him  in  New  York.  He  collected 
beautiful  things,  pictures  and  antiques  and  objects  that  he 
sent  for  to  Europe  on  purpose,  many  of  which  were 
arranged  in  his  rooms  at  Cambridge.  He  had  intaglios 
and  Spanish  altar-cloths  and  drawings  by  the  old  masters. 
He  was  different  from  most  others ;  he  seemed  to  want  so 
much  to  enjoy  life,  and  to  think  you  easily  could  if  you 
would  only  let  yourself  go.  Of  course — judging  by  what 
he  had — he  appeared  to  think  you  required  a  great  many 
things  to  keep  you  up.  And  then  Verena  told  Olive — she 
could  see  it  was  after  a  little  delay — that  he  wanted  her  to 
come  round  to  his  place  and  see  his  treasures.  He  wanted 
to  show  them  to  her,  he  was  so  sure  she  would  admire 
them.  Verena  was  sure  also,  but  she  wouldn't  go  alone, 
and  she  wanted  Olive  to  go  with  her.  They  would  have 
tea,  and  there  would  be  other  ladies,  and  Olive  would  tell 
her  what  she  thought  of  a  life  that  was  so  crowded  with 
beauty.  Miss  Chancellor  made  her  reflections  on  all  this, 
and  the  first  of  them  was  that  it  was  happy  for  her  that  she 
had  determined  for  the  present  to  accept  these  accidents, 
for  otherwise  might  she  not  now  have  had  a  deeper  alarm  ? 
She  wished  to  heaven  that  conceited  young  men  with  time 
on  their  hands  would  leave  Verena  alone;  but  evidently 
they  wouldn't,  and  her  best  safety  was  in  seeing  as  many  as 
should  turn  up.  If  the  type  should  become  frequent,  she 
would  very  soon  judge  it.  If  Olive  had  not  been  so  grim, 
she  would  have  had  a  smile  to  spare  for  the  frankness  with 
which  the  girl  herself  adopted  this  theory.  She  was  eager 
to  explain  that  Mr.  Burrage  didn't  seem  at  all  to  want  what 
poor  Mr.  Pardon  had  wanted ;  he  made  her  talk  about  her 
views  far  more  than  that  gentleman,  but  gave  no  sign  of 


148  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvm. 

offering  himself  either  as  a  husband  or  as  a  lecture-agent. 
The  furthest  he  had  gone  as  yet  was  to  tell  her  that  he 
liked  her  for  the  same  reason  that  he  liked  old  enamels  and 
old  embroideries ;  and  when  she  said  that  she  didn't  see 
how  she  resembled  such  things,  he  had  replied  that  it  was 
because  she  was  so  peculiar  and  so  delicate.  She  might  be 
peculiar,  but  she  had  protested  against  the  idea  that  she 
was  delicate ;  it  was  the  last  thing  that  she  wanted  to  be 
thought ;  and  Olive  could  see  from  this  how  far  she  was 
from  falling  in  with  everything  he  said.  When  Miss  Chan 
cellor  asked  if  she  respected  Mr.  Burrage  (and  how  solemn 
Olive  could  make  that  word  she  by  this  time  knew),  she 
answered,  with  her  sweet,  vain  laugh,  but  apparently  with 
perfect  good  faith,  that  it  didn't  matter  whether  she  did  or 
not,  for  what  was  the  whole  thing  but  simply  a  phase — the 
very  one  they  had  talked  about?  The  sooner  she  got 
through  it  the  better,  was  it  not? — and  she  seemed  to 
think  that  her  transit  would  be  materially  quickened  by 
a  visit  to  Mr.  Burrage's  rooms.  As  I  say,  Verena  was 
pleased  to  regard  the  phase  as  quite  inevitable,  and  she 
had  said  more  than  once  to  Olive  that  if  their  struggle  was 
to  be  with  men,  the  more  they  knew  about  them  the  better. 
Miss  Chancellor  asked  her  why  her  mother  should  not  go 
with  her  to  see  the  curiosities,  since  she  mentioned  that 
their  possessor  had  not  neglected  to  invite  Mrs.  Tarrant; 
and  Verena  said  that  this,  of  course,  would  be  very  simple 
— only  her  mother  wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  her  so  well  as 
Olive  whether  she  ought  to  respect  Mr.  Burrage.  This 
decision  as  to  whether  Mr.  Burrage  should  be  respected 
assumed  in  the  life  of  these  two  remarkable  young  women, 
pitched  in  so  high  a  moral  key,  the  proportions  of  a 
momentous  event.  Olive  shrank  at  first  from  facing  it — 
not,  indeed,  the  decision — for  we  know  that  her  own  mind 
had  long  since  been  made  up  in  regard  to  the  quantity  of 
esteem  due  to  almost  any  member  of  the  other  sex — but 
the  incident  itself,  which,  if  Mr.  Burrage  should  exasperate 
her  further,  might  expose  her  to  the  danger  of  appearing  to 
Verena  to  be  unfair  to  him.  It  was  her  belief  that  he  was 
playing  a  deeper  game  than  the  young  Matthias,  and  she 
was  very  willing  to  watch  him ;  but  she  thought  it  prudent 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  149 

not  to  attempt  to  cut  short  the  phase  (she  adopted  that 
classification)  prematurely — an  imputation  she  should  incur 
if,  without  more  delay,  she  were  to  '  shut  down,'  as  Verena 
said,  on  the  young  connoisseur. 

It  was  settled,  therefore,  that  Mrs.  Tarrant  should,  with 
her  daughter,  accept  Mr.  Burrage's  invitation  j  and  in  a 
few  days  these  ladies  paid  a  visit  to  his  apartments. 
Verena  subsequently,  of  course,  had  much  to  say  about  it, 
but  she  dilated  even  more  upon  her  mother's  impressions 
than  upon  her  own.  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  carried  away  a  supply 
which  would  last  her  all  winter ;  there  had  been  some  New 
York  ladies  present  who  were  '  on '  at  that  moment,  and 
with  whom  her  intercourse  was  rich  in  emotions.  She  had 
told  them  all  that  she  should  be  happy  to  see  them  in  her 
home,  but  they  had  not  yet  picked  their  way  along  the  little 
planks  of  the  front  yard.  Mr.  Burrage,  at  all  events,  had 
been  quite  lovely,  and  had  talked  about  his  collections, 
which  were  wonderful,  in  the  most  interesting  manner. 
Verena  inclined  to  think  he  was  to  be  respected.  He 
admitted  that  he  was  not  really  studying  law  at  all ;  he  had 
only  come  to  Cambridge  for  the  form ;  but  she  didn't  see 
why  it  wasn't  enough  when  you  made  yourself  as  pleasant 
as  that.  She  went  so  far  as  to  ask  Olive  whether  taste  and 
art  were  not  something,  and  her  friend  could  see  that  she 
was  certainly  very  much  involved  in  the  phase.  Miss 
Chancellor,  of  course,  had  her  answer  ready.  Taste  and 
art  were  good  when  they  enlarged  the  mind,  not  when  they 
narrowed  it.  Verena  assented  to  this,  and  said  it  remained 
to  be  seen  what  effect  they  had  had  upon  Mr.  Burrage — a 
remark  which  led  Olive  to  fear  that  at  such  a  rate  much 
would  remain,  especially  when  Verena  told  her,  later,  that 
another  visit  to  the  young  man's  rooms  was  projected,  and 
that  this  time  she  must  come,  he  having  expressed  the 
greatest  desire  for  the  honour,  and  her  own  wish  being 
greater  still  that  they  should  look  at  some  of  his  beautiful 
things  together. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  Mr.  Henry  Burrage  left  a  card 
at  Miss  Chancellor's  door,  with  a  note  in  which  he  expressed 
the  hope  that  she  would  take  tea  with  him  on  a  certain 
day  on  which  he  expected  the  company  of  his  mother. 


ISO  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvm. 

Olive  responded  to  this  invitation,  in  conjunction  with 
Verena ;  but  in  doing  so  she  was  in  the  position,  singular 
for  her,  of  not  quite  understanding  what  she  was  about. 
It  seemed  to  her  strange  that  Verena  should  urge  her  to 
take  such  a  step  when  she  was  free  to  go  without  her,  and 
it  proved  two  things  :  first,  that  she  was  much  interested 
in  Mr.  Henry  Burrage,  and  second,  that  her  nature  was 
extraordinarily  beautiful.  Could  anything,  in  effect,  be 
less  underhand  than  such  an  indifference  to  what  she  sup- 
posed to  be  the  best  opportunities  for  carrying  on  a  flirta- 
tion ?  Verena  wanted  to  know  the  truth,  and  it  was  clear 
that  by  this  time  she  believed  Olive  Chancellor  to  have  it, 
for  the  most  part,  in  her  keeping.  Her  insistence,  there- 
fore, proved,  above  all,  that  she  cared  more  for  her  friend's 
opinion  of  Henry  Burrage  than  for  her  own — a  reminder, 
certainly,  of  the  responsibility  that  Olive  had  incurred  in 
undertaking  to  form  this  generous  young  mind,  and  of  the 
exalted  place  that  she  now  occupied  in  it.  Such  revela- 
tions ought  to  have  been  satisfactory ;  if  they  failed  to  be 
completely  so,  it  was  only  on  account  of  the  elder  girl's 
regret  that  the  subject  as  to  which  her  judgment  was  wanted 
should  be  a  young  man  destitute  of  the  worst  vices.  Henry 
Burrage  had  contributed  to  throw  Miss  Chancellor  into  a 
'  state,'  as  these  young  ladies  called  it,  the  night  she  met 
him  at  Mrs.  Tarrant's ;  but  it  had  none  the.  less  been  con- 
veyed to  Olive  by  the  voices  of  the  air  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man and  a  good  fellow. 

This  was  painfully  obvious  when  the  visit  to  his  rooms 
took  place ;  he  was  so  good-humoured,  so  amusing,  so 
friendly  and  considerate,  so  attentive  to  Miss  Chancellor, 
he  did  the  honours  of  his  bachelor-nest  with  so  easy  a 
grace,  that  Olive,  part  of  the  time,  sat  dumbly  shaking  her 
conscience,  like  a  watch  that  wouldn't  go,  to  make  it  tell 
her  some  better  reason  why  she  shouldn't  like  him.  She 
saw'  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  disliking  his 
mother ;  but  that,  unfortunately,  would  not  serve  her 
purpose  nearly  so  well.  Mrs.  Burrage  had  come  to  spend 
a  few  days  near  her  son ;  she  was  staying  at  an  hotel  in 
Boston.  It  presented  itself  to  Olive  that  after  this  enter- 
tainment it  would  be  an  act  of  courtesy  to  call  upon  her ; 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  151 

but  here,  at  least,  was  the  comfort  that  she  could  cover 
herself  with  the  general  absolution  extended  to  the  Boston 
temperament  and  leave  her  alone.  It  was  slightly  provoking, 
indeed,  that  Mrs.  Burrage  should  have  so  much  the  air  of 
a  New  Yorker  who  didn't  particularly  notice  whether  a 
Bostonian  called  or  not  •  but  there  is  ever  an  imperfection, 
I  suppose,  in  even  the  sweetest  revenge.  She  was  a  woman 
of  society,  large  and  voluminous,  fair  (in  complexion)  and 
regularly  ugly,  looking  as  if  she  ought  to  be  slow  and  rather 
heavy,  but  disappointing  this  expectation  by  a  quick, 
amused  utterance,  a  short,  bright,  summary  laugh,  with 
which  she  appeared  to  dispose  of  the  joke  (whatever  it  was) 
for  ever,  and  an  air  of  recognising  on  the  instant  everything 
she  saw  and  heard.  She  was  evidently  accustomed  to  talk, 
and  even  to  listen,  if  not  kept  waiting  too  long  for  details 
and  parentheses  ;  she  was  not  continuous,  but  frequent,  as 
it  were,  and  you  could  see  that  she  hated  explanations, 
though  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  anything  to 
fear  from  them.  Her  favours  were  general,  not  particular ; 
she  was  civil  enough  to  every  one,  but  not  in  any  case  en- 
dearing, and  perfectly  genial  without  being  confiding,  as 
people  were  in  Boston  when  (in  moments  of  exaltation) 
they  wished  to  mark  that  they  were  not  suspicious.  There 
was  something  in  her  whole  manner  which  seemed  to  say 
to  Olive  that  she  belonged  to  a  larger  world  than  hers  ; 
and  our  young  lady  was  vexed  at  not  hearing  that  she  had 
lived  for  a  good  many  years  in  Europe,  as  this  would  have 
made  it  easy  to  classify  her  as  one  of  the  corrupt.  She 
learned,  almost  with  a  sense  of  injury,  that  neither  the 
mother  nor  the  son  had  been  longer  beyond  the  seas  than 
she  herself ;  and  if  they  were  to  be  judged  as  triflers  they 
must  be  dealt  with  individually.  Was  it  an  aid  to  such  a 
judgment  to  see  that  Mrs.  Burrage  was  very  much  pleased 
with  Boston,  with  Harvard  College,  with  her  son's  interior, 
with  her  cup  of  tea  (it  was  old  Sevres),  which  was  not  half 
so  bad  as  she  had  expected,  with  the  company  he  had 
asked  to  meet  her  (there  were  three  or  four  gentlemen,  one 
of  whom  was  Mr.  Grade),  and,  last,  not  least,  with  Verena 
Tarrant,  whom  she  addressed  as  a  celebrity,  kindly,  cleverly, 
but  without  maternal  tenderness  or  anything  to  mark  the 


152  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvin. 

difference  in  their  age  ?  She  spoke  to  her  as  if  they  were 
equals  in  that  respect,  as  if  Verena's  genius  and  fame  would 
make  up  the  disparity,  and  the  girl  had  no  need  of  encour- 
agement and  patronage.  She  made  no  direct  allusion, 
however,  to  her  particular  views,  and  asked  her  no  question 
about  her  'gift' — an  omission  which  Verena  thought 
strange,  and,  with  the  most  speculative  candour,  spoke  of 
to  Olive  afterwards.  Mrs.  Burrage  seemed  to  imply  that 
every  one  present  had  some  distinction  and  some  talent, 
that  they  were  all  good  company  together.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  manner  to  indicate  that  she  was  afraid  of 
Verena  on  her  son's  account ;  she  didn't  resemble  a  person 
who  would  like  him  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a  mesmeric 
healer,  and  yet  she  appeared  to  think  it  charming  that  he 
should  have  such  a  young  woman  there  to  give  gusto  to 
her  hour  at  Cambridge.  Poor  Olive  was,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  entangled  in  contradictions ;  she  had  a  horror  of  the 
idea  of  Verena's  marrying  Mr.  Burrage,  and  yet  she  was 
angry  when  his  mother  demeaned  herself  as  if  the  little  girl 
with  red  hair,  whose  freshness  she  enjoyed,  could  not  be  a 
serious  danger.  She  saw  all  this  through  the  blur  of  her 
shyness,  the  conscious,  anxious  silence  to  which  she  was  so 
much  of  the  time  condemned.  It  may  therefore  be  ima- 
gined how  sharp  her  vision  would  have  been  could  she  only 
have  taken  the  situation  more  simply ;  for  she  was  intelli- 
gent enough  not  to  have  needed  to  be  morbid,  even  for 
purposes  of  self-defence. 

I  must  add,  however,  that  there  was  a  moment  when 
she  came  near  being  happy — or,  at  any  rate,  reflected  that 
it  was  a  pity  she  could  not  be  so.  Mrs.  Burrage  asked  her 
son  to  play  'some  little  thing,'  and  he  sat  down  to  his 
piano  and  revealed  a  talent  that  might  well  have  gratified 
that  lady's  pride.  Olive  was  extremely  susceptible  to 
music,  and  it  was  impossible  to  her  not  to  be  soothed  and 
beguiled  by  the  young  man's  charming  art.  One  'little 
thing'  succeeded  another;  his  selections  were  all  very 
happy.  His  guests  sat  scattered  in  the  red  firelight,  listen- 
ing, silent,  in  comfortable  attitudes;  there  was  a  faint 
fragrance  from  the  burning  logs,  which  mingled  with  the 
perfume  of  Schubert  and  Mendelssohn ;  the  covered  lamps 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  153 

made  a  glow  here  and  there,  and  the  cabinets  and  brackets 
produced  brown  shadows,  out  of  which  some  precious 
object  gleamed — some  ivory  carving  or  cinque-cento  cup. 
It  was  given  to  Olive,  under  these  circumstances,  for  half 
an  hour,  to  surrender  herself,  to  enjoy  the  music,  to  admit 
that  Mr.  Burrage  played  with  exquisite  taste,  to  feel  as  if 
the  situation  were  a  kind  of  truce.  Her  nerves  were 
calmed,  her  problems — for  the  time — subsided.  Civilisa- 
tion, under  such  an  influence,  in  such  a  setting,  appeared 
to  have  done  its  work ;  harmony  ruled  the  scene ;  human 
life  ceased  to  be  a  battle.  She  went  so  far  as  to  ask  herself 
why  one  should  have  a  quarrel  with  it ;  the  relations  of  men 
and  women,  in  that  picturesque  grouping,  had  not  the  air  of 
being  internecine.  In  short,  she  had  an  interval  of  un- 
expected rest,  during  which  she  kept  her  eyes  mainly  on 
Verena,  who  sat  near  Mrs.  Burrage,  letting  herself  go, 
evidently,  more  completely  than  Olive.  To  her,  too,  music 
was  a  delight,  and  her  listening  face  turned  itself  to  different 
parts  of  the  room,  unconsciously,  while  her  eyes  vaguely 
rested  on  the  bibelots  that  emerged  into  the  firelight  At 
moments  Mrs.  Burrage  bent  her  countenance  upon  her  and 
smiled,  at  random,  kindly ;  and  then  Verena  smiled  back, 
while  her  expression  seemed  to  say  that,  oh  yes,  she  was 
giving  up  everything,  all  principles,  all  projects.  Even 
before  it  was  time  to  go,  Olive  felt  that  they  were  both 
(Verena  and  she)  quite  demoralised,  and  she  only  sum- 
moned energy  to  take  her  companion  away  when  she  heard 
Mrs.  Burrage  propose  to  her  to  come  and  spend  a  fortnight 
in  New  York.  Then  Olive  exclaimed  to  herself,  '  Is  it  a 
plot?  Why  in  the  world  can't  they  let  her  alone?'  and 
prepared  to  throw  a  fold  of  her  mantle,  as  she  had  done 
before,  over  her  young  friend.  Verena  answered,  somewhat 
impetuously,  that  she  should  be  delighted  to  visit  Mrs. 
Burrage;  then  checked  her  impetuosity,  after  a  glance 
from  Olive,  by  adding  that  perhaps  this  lady  wouldn't  ask 
her  if  she  knew  what  strong  ground  she  took  on  the 
emancipation  of  women.  Mrs.  Burrage  looked  at  her  son 
and  laughed ;  she  said  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  Verena's 
views,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  more  in  sympathy 
with  them  than  she  herself.  She  took  the  greatest  interest 


154  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvm. 

in  the  emancipation  of  women ;  she  thought  there  was  so 
much  to  be  done.  These  were  the  only  remarks  that 
passed  in  reference  to  the  great  subject ;  and  nothing  more 
was  said  to  Verena,  either  by  Henry  Burrage  or  by  his 
friend  Gracie,  about  her  addressing  the  Harvard  students. 
Verena  had  told  her  father  that  Olive  had  put  her  veto 
upon  that,  and  Tarrant  had  said  to  the  young  men  that  it 
seemed  as  if  Miss  Chancellor  was  going  to  put  the  thing 
through  in  her  own  way.  We  know  that  he  thought  this 
way  very  circuitous;  but  Miss  Chancellor  made  him  feel 
that  she  was  in  earnest,  and  that  idea  frightened  the  resist- 
ance out  of  him — it  had  such  terrible  associations.  The 
people  he  had  ever  seen  who  were  most  in  earnest  were  a 
committee  of  gentlemen  who  had  investigated  the  pheno- 
mena of  the  'materialisation'  of  spirits,  some  ten  years 
before,  and  had  bent  the  fierce  light  of  the  scientific 
method  upon  him.  To  Olive  it  appeared  that  Mr.  Burrage 
and  Mr.  Gracie  had  ceased  to  be  jocular ;  but  that  did  not 
make  them  any  less  cynical.  Henry  Burrage  said  to 
Verena,  as  she  was  going,  that  he  hoped  she  would  think 
seriously  of  his  mother's  invitation ;  and  she  replied  that 
she  didn't  know  whether  she  should  have  much  time  in  the 
future  to  give  to  people  who  already  approved  of  her  views  : 
she  expected  to  have  her  hands  full  with  the  others,  who 
didn't. 

'  Does  your  scheme  of  work  exclude  all  distraction,  all 
recreation,  then  ?'  the  young  man  inquired ;  and  his  look 
expressed  real  suspense. 

Verena  referred  the  matter,  as  usual,  with  her  air  of 
bright,  ungrudging  deference,  to  her  companion.  *  Does  it, 
should  you  say — our  scheme  of  work  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  the  distraction  we  have  had  this  afternoon 
must  last  us  for  a  long  time/  Olive  said,  without  harshness, 
but  with  considerable  majesty. 

*  Well,  now,  is  he  to  be  respected  ?'  Verena  demanded, 
as  the  two  young  women  took  their  way  through  the  early 
darkness,  pacing  quietly  side  by  side,  in  their  winter-robes, 
like  women  consecrated  to  some  holy  office. 

Olive  turned  it  over  a  moment.  '  Yes,  very  much — as 
a  pianist !' 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  155 

Verena  went  into  town  with  her  in  the  horse-car — she 
was  staying  in  Charles  Street  for  a  few  days — and  that 
evening  she  startled  Olive  by  breaking  out  into  a  reflec- 
tion very  similar  to  the  whimsical  falterings  of  which  she 
herself  had  been  conscious  while  they  sat  in  Mr.  Burrage's 
pretty  rooms,  but  against  which  she  had  now  violently 
reacted. 

'  It  would  be  very  nice  to  do  that  always — just  to  take 
men  as  they  are,  and  not  to  have  to  think  about  their  bad- 
ness. It  would  be  very  nice  not  to  have  so  many  questions, 
but  to  think  they  were  all  comfortably  answered,  so  that  one 
could  sit  there  on  an  old  Spanish  leather  chair,  with  the 
curtains  drawn  and  keeping  out  the  cold,  the  darkness,  all 
the  big,  terrible,  cruel  world — sit  there  and  listen  for  ever  to 
Schubert  and  Mendelssohn.  They  didn't  care  anything 
about  female  suffrage !  And  I  didn't  feel  the  want  of  a 
vote  to-day  at  all,  did  you?'  Verena  inquired,  ending,  as 
she  always  ended  in  these  few  speculations,  with  an  appeal 
to  Olive. 

This  young  lady  thought  it  necessary  to  give  her  a  very 
firm  answer.  'I  always  feel  it — everywhere — night  and 
day.  I  feel  it  here /'  and  Olive  laid  her  hand  solemnly  on 
her  heart.  '  I  feel  it  as  a  deep,  unforgetable  wrong  ;  I  feel 
it  as  one  feels  a  stain  that  is  on  one's  honour.' 

Verena  gave  a  clear  laugh,  and  after  that  a  soft  sigh, 
and  then  said,  '  Do  you  know,  Olive,  I  sometimes  wonder 
whether,  if  it  wasn't  for  you,  I  should  feel  it  so  very 
much  !' 

'My  own  friend,'  Olive  replied,  'you  have  never  yet 
said  anything  to  me  which  expressed  so  clearly  the  close- 
ness and  sanctity  of  our  union.' 

'  You  do  keep  me  up,'  Verena  went  on.  '  You  are  my 
conscience.' 

'  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  that  you  are  my  form — 
my  envelope.  But  you  are  too  beautiful  for  that !'  So 
Olive  returned  her  friend's  compliment ;  and  later  she  said 
that,  of  course,  it  would  be  far  easier  to  give  up  everything 
and  draw  the  curtains  to  and  pass  one's  life  in  an  artificial 
atmosphere,  with  rose-coloured  lamps.  It  would  be  far 
easier  to  abandon  the  struggle,  to  leave  all  the  unhappy 


156  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xvm. 

women  of  the  world  to  their  immemorial  misery,  to  lay 
down  one's  burden,  close  one's  eyes  to  the  whole  dark 
picture,  and,  in  short,  simply  expire.  To  this  Verena 
objected  that  it  would  not  be  easy  for  her  to  expire  at  all ; 
that  such  an  idea  was  darker  than  anything  the  world 
contained ;  that  she  had  not  done  with  life  yet,  and  that 
she  didn't  mean  to  allow  her  responsibilities  to  crush  her. 
And  then  the  two  young  women  concluded,  as  they  had 
concluded  before,  by  rinding  themselves  completely,  inspir- 
ingly  in  agreement,  full  of  the  purpose  to  live  indeed,  and 
with  high  success ;  to  become  great,  in  order  not  to  be 
obscure,  and  powerful,  in  order  not  to  be  useless.  Olive 
had  often  declared  before  that  her  conception  of  life  was  as 
something  sublime  or  as  nothing  at  all.  The  world  was 
full  of  evil,  but  she  was  glad  to  have  been  born  before  it 
had  been  swept  away,  while  it  was  still  there  to  face,  to 
give  one  a  task  and  a  reward.  When  the  great  reforms 
should  be  consummated,  when  the  day  of  justice  should 
have  dawned,  would  not  life  perhaps  be  rather  poor  and 
pale  ?  She  had  never  pretended  to  deny  that  the  hope  of 
fame,  of  the  very  highest  distinction,  was  one  of  her 
strongest  incitements ;  and  she  held  that  the  most  effective 
way  of  protesting  against  the  state  of  bondage  of  women 
was  for  an  individual  member  of  the  sex  to  become  illustri- 
ous. A  person  who  might  have  overheard  some  of  the 
talk  of  this  possibly  infatuated  pair  would  have  been 
touched  by  their  extreme  familiarity  with  the  idea  of 
earthly  glory.  Verena  had  not  invented  it,  but  she  had 
taken  it  eagerly  from  her  friend,  and  she  returned  it  with 
interest.  To  Olive  it  appeared  that  just  this  partnership  of 
their  two  minds — each  of  them,  by  itself,  lacking  an  im- 
portant group  of  facets — made  an  organic  whole  which,  for 
the  work  in  hand,  could  not  fail  to  be  brilliantly  effective. 
Verena  was  often  far  more  irresponsive  than  she  liked  to 
see  her ;  but  the  happy  thing  in  her  composition  was  that, 
after  a  short  contact  with  the  divine  idea — Olive  was  always 
trying  to  flash  it  at  her,  like  a  jewel  in  an  uncovered  case — 
she  kindled,  flamed  up,  took  the  words  from  her  friend's 
less  persuasive  lips,  resolved  herself  into  a  magical  voice, 
became  again  the  pure  young  sibyl.  Then  Olive  perceived 


xviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  157 

how  fatally,  without  Verena's  tender  notes,  her  crusade 
would  lack  sweetness,  what  the  Catholics  call  unction ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  how  weak  Verena  would  be  on  the 
statistical  and  logical  side  if  she  herself  should  not  bring  up 
the  rear.  Together,  in  short,  they  would  be  complete, 
they  would  have  everything,  and  together  they  would 
triumph. 


XIX. 

THIS  idea  of  their  triumph,  a  triumph  as  yet  ultimate  and 
remote,  but  preceded  by  the  solemn  vista  of  an  effort  so 
religious  as  never  to  be  wanting  in  ecstasy,  became  tre- 
mendously familiar  to  the  two  friends,  but  especially  to 
Olive,  during  the  winter  of  187—,  a  season  which  ushered 
in  the  most  momentous  period  of  Miss  Chancellor's  life. 
About  Christmas  a  step  was  taken  which  advanced  her 
affairs  immensely,  and  put  them,  to  her  apprehension,  on 
a  regular  footing.  This  consisted  in  Verena's  coming  in 
to  Charles  Street  to  stay  with  her,  in  pursuance  of  an 
arrangement  on  Olive's  part  with  Selah  Tarrant  and  his 
wife  that  she  should  remain  for  many  months.  The  coast 
was  now  perfectly  clear.  Mrs.  Farrinder  had  started  on 
her  annual  grand  tour ;  she  was  rousing  the  people,  from 
Maine  to  Texas ;  Matthias  Pardon  (it  was  to  be  supposed) 
had  received,  temporarily  at  least,  his  quietus ;  and  Mrs. 
Luna  was  established  in  New  York,  where  she  had  taken 
a  house  for  a  year,  and  whence  she  wrote  to  her  sister  that 
she  was  going  to  engage  Basil  Ransom  (with  whom  she  was 
in  communication  for  this  purpose)  to  do  her  law-business. 
Olive  wondered  what  law-business  Adeline  could  have,  and 
hoped  she  would  get  into  a  pickle  with  her  landlord  or  her 
milliner,  so  that  repeated  interviews  with  Mr.  Ransom 
might  become  necessary.  Mrs.  Luna  let  her  know  very 
soon  that  these  interviews  had  begun ;  the  young  Missis- 
sippian  had  come  to  dine  with  her ;  he  hadn't  got  started 
much,  by  what  she  could  make  out,  and  she  was  even 
afraid  that  he  didn't  dine  every  day.  But  he  wore  a  tall 
hat  now,  like  a  Northern  gentleman,  and  Adeline  intimated 
that  she  found  him  really  attractive.  He  had  been  very 
nice  to  Newton,  told  him  all  about  the  war  (quite  the 


xix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  159 

Southern  version,  of  course,  but  Mrs.  Luna  didn't  care 
anything  about  American  politics,  and  she  wanted  her  son 
to  know  all  sides),  and  Newton  did  nothing  but  talk  about 
him,  calling  him  '  Rannie,'  and  imitating  his  pronunciation 
of  certain  words.  Adeline  subsequently  wrote  that  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  put  her  affairs  into  his  hands 
(Olive  sighed,  not  unmagnanimously,  as  she  thought  of  her 
sister's  '  affairs '),  and  later  still  she  mentioned  that  she  was 
thinking  strongly  of  taking  him  to  be  Newton's  tutor.  She 
wished  this  interesting  child  to  be  privately  educated,  and 
it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  have  in  that  relation  a  person 
who  was  already,  as  it  were,  a  member  of  the  family.  Mrs. 
Luna  wrote  as  if  he  were  prepared  to  give  up  his  profes- 
sion to  take  charge  of  her  son,  and  Olive  was  pretty 
sure  that  this  was  only  a  part  of  her  grandeur,  of  the 
habit  she  had  contracted,  especially  since  living  in 
Europe,  of  speaking  as  if  in  every  case  she  required 
special  arrangements. 

In  spite  of  the  difference  in  their  age,  Olive  had  long 
since  judged  her,  and  made  up  her  mind  that  Adeline 
lacked  every  quality  that  a  person  needed  to  be  interesting 
in  her  eyes.  She  was  rich  (or  sufficiently  so),  she  was 
conventional  and  timid,  very  fond  of  attentions  from  men 
(with  whom  indeed  she  was  reputed  bold,  but  Olive  scorned 
such  boldness  as  that),  given  up  to  a  merely  personal,  ego- 
tistical, instinctive  life,  and  as  unconscious  of  the  tendencies 
of  the  age,  the  revenges  of  the  future,  the  new  truths  and 
the  great  social  questions,  as  if  she  had  been  a  mere  bundle 
of  dress -trimmings,  which  she  very  nearly  was.  It  was 
perfectly  observable  that  she  had  no  conscience,  and  it 
irritated  Olive  deeply  to  see  how  much  trouble  a  woman 
was  spared  when  she  was  constructed  on  that  system. 
Adeline's  '  affairs,'  as  I  have  intimated,  her  social  relations, 
her  views  of  Newton's  education,  her  practice  and  her 
theory  (for  she  had  plenty  of  that,  such  as  it  was,  heaven 
save  the  mark  !),  her  spasmodic  disposition  to  marry  again, 
and  her  still  sillier  retreats  in  the  presence  of  danger  (for 
she  had  not  even  the  courage  of  her  frivolity),  these  things 
had  been  a  subject  of  tragic  consideration  to  Olive  ever 
since  the  return  of  the  elder  sister  to  America.  The 


160  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xix. 

tragedy  was  not  in  any  particular  harm  that  Mrs.  Luna 
could  do  her  (for  she  did  her  good,  rather,  that  is,  she 
did  her  honour,  by  laughing  at  her),  but  in  the  spectacle 
itself,  the  drama,  guided  by  the  hand  of  fate,  of  which  the 
small,  ignoble  scenes  unrolled  themselves  so  logically.  The 
denouement  would  of  course  be  in  keeping,  and  would 
consist  simply  of  the  spiritual  death  of  Mrs.  Luna,  who 
would  end  by  understanding  no  common  speech  of  Olive's 
at  all,  and  would  sink  into  mere  worldly  plumpness,  into 
the  last  complacency,  the  supreme  imbecility,  of  petty, 
genteel  conservatism.  As  for  Newton,  he  would  be  more 
utterly  odious,  if  possible,  as  he  grew  up,  than  he  was 
already;  in  fact,  he  would  not  grow  up  at  all,  but  only 
grow  down,  if  his  mother  should  continue  her  infatuated 
system  with  him.  He  was  insufferably  forward  and  selfish ; 
under  the  pretext  of  keeping  him,  at  any  cost,  refined, 
Adeline  had  coddled  and  caressed  him,  having  him 
always  in  her  petticoats,  remitting  his  lessons  when  he 
pretended  he  had  an  earache,  drawing  him  into  the 
conversation,  letting  him  answer  her  back,  with  an  im- 
pertinence beyond  his  years,  when  she  administered  the 
smallest  check.  The  place  for  him,  in  Olive's  eyes,  was 
one  of  the  public  schools,  where  the  children  of  the  people 
would  teach  him  his  small  importance,  teach  it,  if  necessary, 
by  the  aid  of  an  occasional  drubbing ;  and  the  two  ladies 
had  a  grand  discussion  on  this  point  before  Mrs.  Luna  left 
Boston — a  scene  which  ended  in  Adeline's  clutching  the 
irrepressible  Newton  to  her  bosom  (he  came  in  at  the 
moment),  and  demanding  of  him  a  vow  that  he  would 
live  and  die  in  the  principles  of  his  mother.  Mrs.  Luna 
declared  that  if  she  must  be  trampled  upon — and  very 
likely  it  was  her  fate  ! — she  would  rather  be  trampled  upon 
by  men  than  by  women,  and  that  if  Olive  and  her  friends 
should  get  possession  of  the  government  they  would  be 
worse  despots  than  those  who  were  celebrated  in  history. 
Newton  took  an  infant  oath  that  he  would  never  be  a 
destructive,  impious  radical,  and  Olive  felt  that  after  this 
she  needn't  trouble  herself  any  more  about  her  sister, 
whom  she  simply  committed  to  her  fate.  That  fate  might 
very  properly  be  to  marry  an  enemy  of  her  country,  a  man 


xix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  161 

who,  no  doubt,  desired  to  treat  women  with  the  lash  and 
manacles,  as  he  and  his  people  had  formerly  treated  the 
wretched  coloured  race.  If  she  was  so  fond  of  the  fine 
old  institutions  of  the  past,  he  would  supply  them  to  her 
in  abundance ;  and  if  she  wanted  so  much  to  be  a  conserva- 
tive, she  could  try  first  how  she  liked  being  a  conservative's 
wife.  If  Olive  troubled  herself  little  about  Adeline,  she 
troubled  herself  more  about  Basil  Ransom;  she  said  to 
herself  that  since  he  hated  women  who  respected  them- 
selves (and  each  other),  destiny  would  use  him  rightly  in 
hanging  a  person  like  Adeline  round  his  neck.  That 
would  be  the  way  poetic  justice  ought  to  work,  for  him — 
and  the  law  that  our  prejudices,  when  they  act  themselves 
out,  punish  us  in  doing  so.  Olive  considered  all  this,  as  it 
was  her  effort  to  consider  everything,  from  a  very  high 
point  of  view,  and  ended  by  feeling  sure  it  was  not  for 
the  sake  of  any  nervous  personal  security  that  she  desired 
to  see  her  two  relations  in  New  York  get  mixed  up  together. 
If  such  an  event  as  their  marriage  would  gratify  her  sense 
of  fitness,  it  would  be  simply  as  an  illustration  of  certain 
laws.  Olive,  thanks  to  the  philosophic  cast  of  her  mind, 
was  exceedingly  fond  of  illustrations  of  laws. 

I  hardly  know,  however,  what  illumination  it  was  that 
sprang  from  her  consciousness  (now  a  source  of  considerable 
comfort),  that  Mrs.  Farrinder  was  carrying  the  war  into 
distant  territories,  and  would  return  to  Boston  only  in 
time  to  preside  at  a  grand  Female  Convention,  already 
advertised  to  take  place  in  Boston  in  the  month  of  June. 
It  was  agreeable  to  her  that  this  imperial  woman  should  be 
away ;  it  made  the  field  more  free,  the  air  more  light ;  it 
suggested  an  exemption  from  official  criticism.  I  have  not 
taken  space  to  mention  certain  episodes  of  the  more  recent 
intercourse  of  these  ladies,  and  must  content  myself  with 
tracing  them,  lightly,  in  their  consequences.  These  may 
be  summed  up  in  the  remark,  which  will  doubtless  startle 
no  one  by  its  freshness,  that  two  imperial  women  are 
scarcely  more  likely  to  hit  it  off  together,  as  the  phrase  is, 
than  two  imperial  men.  Since  that  party  at  Miss  Birds- 
eye's,  so  important  in  its  results  for  Olive,  she  had  had 
occasion  to  approach  Mrs.  Farrinder  more  nearly,  and 

M 


162  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xix. 

those  overtures  brought  forth  the  knowledge  that  the 
great  leader  of  the  feminine  revolution  was  the  one 
person  (in  that  part  of  the  world)  more  concentrated, 
more  determined,  than  herself.  Miss  Chancellor's  aspira- 
tions, of  late,  had  been  immensely  quickened;  she  had 
begun  to  believe  in  herself  to  a  livelier  tune  than  she  had 
ever  listened  to  before ;  and  she  now  perceived  that  when 
spirit  meets  spirit  there  must  either  be  mutual  absorption  or 
a  sharp  concussion.  It  had  long  been  familiar  to  her  that 
she  should  have  to  count  with  the  obstinacy  of  the  world 
at  large,  but  she  now  discovered  that  she  should  have  to 
count  also  with  certain  elements  in  the  feminine  camp.  This 
complicated  the  problem,  and  such  a  complication,  naturally, 
could  not  make  Mrs.  Farrinder  appear  more  easy  to  as- 
similate. If  Olive's  was  a  high  nature  and  so  was  hers, 
the  fault  was  in  neither ;  it  was  only  an  admonition  that 
they  were  not  needed  as  landmarks  in  the  same  part  of  the 
field.  If  such  perceptions  are  delicate  as  between  men, 
the  reader  need  not  be  reminded  of  the  exquisite  form 
they  may  assume  in  natures  more  refined.  So  it  was  that 
Olive  passed,  in  three  months,  from  the  stage  of  veneration 
to  that  of  competition ;  and  the  process  had  been  acceler- 
ated by  the  introduction  of  Verena  into  the  fold.  Mrs. 
Farrinder  had  behaved  in  the  strangest  way  about  Verena. 
First  she  had  been  struck  with  her,  and  then  she  hadn't ; 
first  she  had  seemed  to  want  to  take  her  in,  then  she  had 
shied  at  her  unmistakably — intimating  to  Olive  that  there 
were  enough  of  that  kind  already.  Of  ( that  kind '  indeed  ! 
— the  phrase  reverberated  in  Miss  Chancellor's  resentful 
soul.  Was  it  possible  she  didn't  know  the  kind  Verena 
was  of,  and  with  what  vulgar  aspirants  to  notoriety  did  she 
confound  her?  It  had  been  Olive's  original  desire  to 
obtain  Mrs.  Farrinder's  stamp  for  her  protegee  ;  she  wished 
her  to  hold  a  commission  from  the  commander-in-chief. 
With  this  view  the  two  young  women  had  made  more  than 
one  pilgrimage  to  Roxbury,  and  on  one  of  these  occasions 
the  sibylline  mood  (in  its  most  charming  form)  had  de- 
scended upon  Verena.  She  had  fallen  into  it,  naturally 
and  gracefully,  in  the  course  of  talk,  and  poured  out  a 
stream  of  eloquence  even  more  touching  than  her  regular 


xix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  163 

discourse  at  Miss  Birdseye's.  Mrs.  Farrinder  had  taken  it 
rather  drily,  and  certainly  it  didn't  resemble  her  own  style 
of  oratory,  remarkable  and  cogent  as  this  was.  There  had 
been  considerable  question  of  her  writing  a  letter  to  the 
New  York  'Tribune/  the  effect  of  which  should  be  to 
launch  Miss  Tarrant  into  renown;  but  this  beneficent 
epistle  never  appeared,  and  now  Olive  saw  that  there  was 
no  favour  to  come  from  the  prophetess  of  Roxbury.  There 
had  been  primnesses,  pruderies,  small  reserves,  which  ended 
by  staying  her  pen.  If  Olive  didn't  say  at  once  that  she 
was  jealous  of  Verena's  more  attractive  manner,  it  was  only 
because  such  a  declaration  was  destined  to  produce  more 
effect  a  little  later.  What  she  did  say  was  that  evidently 
Mrs.  Farrinder  wanted  to  keep  the  movement  in  her  own 
hands — viewed  with  suspicion  certain  romantic,  aesthetic 
elements  which  Olive  and  Verena  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
introduce  into  it.  They  insisted  so  much,  for  instance,  on 
the  historic  unhappiness  of  women ;  but  Mrs.  Farrinder 
didn't  appear  to  care  anything  for  that,  or  indeed  to  know 
much  about  history  at  all.  She  seemed  to  begin  just  to- 
day, and  she  demanded  their  rights  for  them  whether  they 
were  unhappy  or  not.  The  upshot  of  this  was  that  Olive 
threw  herself  on  Verena's  neck  with  a  movement  which 
was  half  indignation,  half  rapture ;  she  exclaimed  that  they 
would  have  to  fight  the  battle  without  human  help,  but, 
after  all,  it  was  better  so.  If  they  were  all  in  all  to  each 
other,  what  more  could  they  want?  They  would  be  iso- 
lated, but  they  would  be  free ;  and  this  view  of  the  situation 
brought  with  it  a  feeling  that  they  had  almost  already  begun 
to  be  a  force.  It  was  not,  indeed,  that  Olive's  resentment 
faded  quite  away ;  for  not  only  had  she  the  sense,  doubtless 
very  presumptuous,  that  Mrs.  Farrinder  was  the  only  person 
thereabouts  of  a  stature  to  judge  her  (a  sufficient  cause  of 
antagonism  in  itself,  for  if  we  like  to  be  praised  by  our 
betters  we  prefer  that  censure  should  come  from  the  other 
sort),  but  the  kind  of  opinion  she  had  unexpectedly  be- 
trayed, after  implying  such  esteem  in  the  earlier  phase  of 
their  intercourse,  made  Olive's  cheeks  occasionally  flush. 
She  prayed  heaven  that  she  might  never  become  so  personal, 
so  narrow.  She  was  frivolous,  worldly,  an  amateur,  a 


164  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xix. 

trifler,  a  frequenter  of  Beacon  Street ;  her  taking  up  Verena 
Tarrant  was  only  a  kind  of  elderly,  ridiculous  doll-dressing : 
this  was  the  light  in  which  Miss  Chancellor  had  reason  to 
believe  that  it  now  suited  Mrs.  Farrinder  to  regard  her ! 
It  was  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  the  misrepresentation  was 
so  gross ;  yet,  none  the  less,  tears  of  wrath  rose  more  than 
once  to  Olive's  eyes  when  she  reflected  that  this  particular 
wrong  had  been  put  upon  her.  Frivolous,  worldly,  Beacon 
Street!  She  appealed  to  Verena  to  share  in  her  pledge 
that  the  world  should  know  in  due  time  how  much  of  that 
sort  of  thing  there  was  about  her.  As  I  have  already 
hinted,  Verena  at  such  moments  quite  rose  to  the  occasion ; 
she  had  private  pangs  at  committing  herself  to  give  the 
cold  shoulder  to  Beacon  Street  for  ever ;  but  she  was  now 
so  completely  in  Olive's  hands  that  there  was  no  sacrifice 
to  which  she  would  not  have  consented  in  order  to  prove 
that  her  benefactress  was  not  frivolous. 

The  matter  of  her  coming  to  stay  for  so  long  in  Charles 
Street  was  arranged  during  a  visit  that  Selah  Tarrant  paid 
there  at  Miss  Chancellor's  request.  This  interview,  which 
had  some  curious  features,  would  be  worth  describing,  but 
I  am  forbidden  to  do  more  than  mention  the  most  striking 
of  these.  Olive  wished  to  have  an  understanding  with 
him ;  wished  the  situation  to  be  clear,  so  that,  disagreeable 
as  it  would  be  to  her  to  receive  him,  she  sent  him  a  sum- 
mons for  a  certain  hour — an  hour  at  which  she  had  planned 
that  Verena  should  be  out  of  the  house.  She  withheld 
this  incident  from  the  girl's  knowledge,  reflecting  with  some 
solemnity  that  it  was  the  first  deception  (for  Olive  her 
silence  was  a  deception)  that  she  had  yet  practised  on  her 
friend,  and  wondering  whether  she  should  have  to  practise 
others  in  the  future.  She  then  and  there  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  not  shrink  from  others  should  they  be 
necessary.  She  notified  Tarrant  that  she  should  keep 
Verena  a  long  time,  and  Tarrant  remarked  that  it  was 
certainly  very  pleasant  to  see  her  so  happily  located.  But 
he  also  intimated  that  he  should  like  to  know  what  Miss 
Chancellor  laid  out  to  do  with  her ;  and  the  tone  of  this 
suggestion  made  Olive  feel  how  right  she  had  been  to 
foresee  that  their  interview  would  have  the  stamp  of 


xix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  165 

business.  It  assumed  that  complexion  very  definitely  when 
she  crossed  over  to  her  desk  and  wrote  Mr.  Tarrant  a 
cheque  for  a  very  considerable  amount.  '  Leave  us  alone 
— entirely  alone — for  a  year,  and  then  I  will  write  you 
another  :'  it  was  with  these  words  she  handed  him  the  little 
strip  of  paper  that  meant  so  much,  feeling,  as  she  did  so, 
that  surely  Mrs.  Farrinder  herself  could  not  "be  less 
amateurish  than  that.  Selah  looked  at  the  cheque,  at  Miss 
Chancellor,  at  the  cheque  again,  at  the  ceiling,  at  the  floor, 
at  the  clock,  and  once  more  at  his  hostess ;  then  the  docu- 
ment disappeared  beneath  the  folds  of  his  waterproof,  and 
she  saw  that  he  was  putting  it  into  some  queer  place  on 
his  queer  person.  'Well,  if  I  didn't  believe  you  were 
going  to  help  her  to  develop,'  he  remarked;  and  he 
stopped,  while  his  hands  continued  to  fumble,  out  of  sight, 
and  he  treated  Olive  to  his  large  joyless  smile.  She 
assured  him  that  he  need  have  no  fear  on  that  score; 
Verena's  development  was  the  thing  in  the  world  in  which 
she  took  most  interest ;  she  should  have  every  opportunity 
for  a  free  expansion.  '  Yes,  that's  the  great  thing,'  Selah 
said ;  '  it's  more  important  than  attracting  a  crowd.  That's 
all  we  shall  ask  of  you ;  let  her  act  out  her  nature.  Don't 
all  the  trouble  of  humanity  come  from  our  being  pressed 
back  ?  Don't  shut  down  the  cover,  Miss  Chancellor  ;  just 
let  her  overflow !'  And  again  Tarrant  illuminated  his 
inquiry,  his  metaphor,  by  the  strange  and  silent  lateral 
movement  of  his  jaws.  He  added,  presently,  that  he 
supposed  he  should  have  to  fix  it  with  Mis'  Tarrant ;  but 
Olive  made  no  answer  to  that ;  she  only  looked  at  him 
with  a  face  in  which  she  intended  to  express  that  there  was 
nothing  that  need  detain  him  longer.  She  knew  it  had 
been  fixed  with  Mrs.  Tarrant ;  she  had  been  over  all  that 
with  Verena,  who  had  told  her  that  her  mother  was  willing 
to  sacrifice  her  for  her  highest  good.  She  had  reason  to 
know  (not  through  Verena,  of  course),  that  Mrs.  Tarrant 
had  embraced,  tenderly,  the  idea  of  a  pecuniary  compensa- 
tion, and  there  was  no  fear  of  her  making  a  scene  when 
Tarrant  should  come  back  with  a  cheque  in  his  pocket. 
'Well,  I  trust  she  may  develop,  richly,  and  that  you  may 
accomplish  what  you  desire ;  it  seems  as  if  we  had  only  a 


166  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xix. 

little  way  to  go  further,'  that  worthy  observed,  as  he  erected 
himself  for  departure. 

'  It's  not  a  little  way ;  it's  a  very  long  way,'  Olive  replied, 
rather  sternly. 

Tarrant  was  on  the  threshold ;  he  lingered  a  little,  em- 
barrassed by  her  grimness,  for  he  himself  had  always 
inclined  to  rose-coloured  views  of  progress,  of  the  march  of 
truth.  He  had  never  met  any  one  so  much  in  earnest  as 
this  definite,  literal  young  woman,  who  had  taken  such  an 
unhoped-for  fancy  to  his  daughter  •  whose  longing  for  the 
new  day  had  such  perversities  of  pessimism,  and  who,  in 
the  midst  of  something  that  appeared  to  be  terribly  search- 
ing in  her  honesty,  was  willing  to  corrupt  him,  as  a  father, 
with  the  most  extravagant  orders  on  her  bank.  He  hardly 
knew  in  what  language  to  speak  to  her;  it  seemed  as  if 
there  was  nothing  soothing  enough,  when  a  lady  adopted 
that  tone  about  a  movement  which  was  thought  by  some 
of  the  brightest  to  be  so  promising.  '  Oh,  well,  I  guess 
there's  some  kind  of  mysterious  law  .  .  .'  he  murmured, 
almost  timidly ;  and  so  he  passed  from  Miss  Chancellor's 
sight. 


XX. 

SHE  hoped  she  should  not  soon  see  him  again,  and 
there  appeared  to  be  no  reason  she  should,  if  their  inter- 
course was  to  be  conducted  by  means  of  cheques.  The 
understanding  with  Verena  was,  of  course,  complete;  she 
had  promised  to  stay  with  her  friend  as  long  as  her  friend 
should  require  it.  She  had  said  at  first  that  she  couldn't 
give  up  her  mother,  but  she  had  been  made  to  feel  that 
there  was  no  question  of  giving  up.  She  should  be  as  free 
as  air,  to  go  and  come ;  she  could  spend  hours  and  days 
with  her  'mother,  whenever  Mrs.  Tarrant  required  her 
attention ;  all  that  Olive  asked  of  her  was  that,  for  the  time, 
she  should  regard  Charles  Street  as  her  home.  There  was 
no  struggle  about  this,  for  the  simple  reason  that  by  the 
time  the  question  came  to  the  front  Verena  was  completely 
under  the  charm.  The  idea  of  Olive's  charm  will  perhaps 
make  the  reader  smile ;  but  I  use  the  word  not  in  its 
derived,  but  in  its  literal  sense.  The  fine  web  of  authority, 
of  dependence,  that  her  strenuous  companion  had  woven 
about  her,  was  now  as  dense  as  a  suit  of  golden  mail ;  and 
Verena  was  thoroughly  interested  in  their  great  undertaking ; 
she  saw  it  in  the  light  of  an  active,  enthusiastic  faith.  The 
benefit  that  her  father  desired  for  her  was  now  assured ; 
she  expanded,  developed,  on  the  most  liberal  scale.  Olive 
saw  the  difference,  and  you  may  imagine  how  she  rejoiced 
in  it ;  she  had  never  known  a  greater  pleasure.  Verena's 
former  attitude  had  been  girlish  submission,  grateful,  curious 
sympathy.  She  had  given  herself,  in  her  young,  amused 
surprise,  because  Olive's  stronger  will  and  the  incisive  pro- 
ceedings with  which  she  pointed  her  purpose  drew  her  on. 
Besides,  she  was  held  by  hospitality,  the  vision  of  new 
social  horizons,  the  sense  of  novelty,  and  the  love  of  change. 


168  THE  BOSTONTANS.  xx. 

But  now  the  girl  was  disinterestedly  attached  to  the 
precious  things  they  were  to  do  together ;  she  cared  about 
them  for  themselves,  believed  in  them  ardently,  had  them 
constantly  in  mind.  Her  share  in  the  union  of  the  two 
young  women  was  no  longer  passive,  purely  appreciative ; 
it  was  passionate,  too,  and  it  put  forth  a  beautiful  energy. 
If  Olive  desired  to  get  Verena  into  training,  she  could 
flatter  herself  that  the  process  had  already  begun,  and  that 
her  colleague  enjoyed  it  almost  as  much  as  she.  Therefore 
she  could  say  to  herself,  without  the  imputation  of  heart- 
lessness,  that  when  she  left  her  mother  it  was  for  a  noble, 
a  sacred  use.  In  point  of  fact,  she  left  her  very  little,  and 
she  spent  hours  in  jingling,  aching,  jostled  journeys  between 
Charles  Street  and  the  stale  suburban  cottage.  Mrs. 
Tarrant  sighed  and  grimaced,  wrapped  herself  more  than 
ever  in  her  mantle,  said  she  didn't  know  as  she  was  fit  to 
struggle  alone,  and  that,  half  the  time,  if  Verena  was  away, 
she  wouldn't  have  the  nerve  to  answer  the  door-bell ;  she 
was  incapable,  of  course,  of  neglecting  such  an  opportunity 
to  posture  as  one  who  paid  with  her  heart's  blood  for 
leading  the  van  of  human  progress.  But  Verena  had  an 
inner  sense  (she  judged  her  mother  now,  a  little,  for  the 
first  time),  that  she  would  be  sorry  to  be  taken  at  her  word, 
and  that  she  felt  safe  enough  in  trusting  to  her  daughter's 
generosity.  She  could  not  divest  herself  of  the  faith — 
even  now  that  Mrs.  Luna  was  gone,  leaving  no  trace,  and 
the  gray  walls  of  a  sedentary  winter  were  apparently  closing 
about  the  two  young  women — she  could  not  renounce  the 
theory  that  a  residence  in  Charles  Street  must  at  least 
produce  some  contact  with  the  brilliant  classes.  She  was 
vexed  at  her  daughter's  resignation  to  not  going  to  parties 
and  to  Miss  Chancellor's  not  giving  them ;  but  it  was 
nothing  new  for  her  to  have  to  practise  patience,  and  she 
could  feel,  at  least,  that  it  was  just  as  handy  for  Mr.  Burrage 
to  call  on  the  child  in  town,  where  he  spent  half  his  time, 
sleeping  constantly  at  Parker's. 

It  was  a  fact  that  this  fortunate  youth  called  very  often, 
and  Verena  saw  him  with  Olive's  full  concurrence  whenever 
she  was  at  home.  It  had  now  been  quite  agreed  between 
them  that  no  artificial  limits  should  be  set  to  the  famous 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  169 

phase;  and  Olive  had,  while  it  lasted,  a  sense  of  real 
heroism  in  steeling  herself  against  uneasiness.  It  seemed 
to  her,  moreover,  only  justice  that  she  should  make  some 
concession ;  if  Verena  made  a  great  sacrifice  of  filial  duty 
in  coming  to  live  with  her  (this,  of  course,  should  be  per- 
manent— she  would  buy  off  the  Tarrants  from  year  to  year), 
she  must  not  incur  the  imputation  (the  world  would  judge 
her,  in  that  case,  ferociously)  of  keeping  her  from  forming 
common  social  ties.  The  friendship  of  a  young  man  and 
a  young  woman  was,  according  to  the  pure  code  of  New 
England,  a  common  social  tie ;  and  as  the  weeks  elapsed 
Miss  Chancellor  saw  no  reason  to  repent  of  her  temerity. 
Verena  was  not  falling  in  love ;  she  felt  that  she  should 
know  it,  should  guess  it  on  the  spot.  Verena  was  fond  of 
human  intercourse;  she  was  essentially  a  sociable  creature; 
she  liked  to  shine  and  smile  and  talk  and  listen ;  and  so 
far  as  Henry  Burrage  was  concerned  he  introduced  an 
element  of  easy  and  convenient  relaxation  into  a  life  now 
a  good  deal  stiffened  (Olive  was  perfectly  willing  to  own  it) 
by  great  civic  purposes.  But  the  girl  was  being  saved, 
without  interference,  by  the  simple  operation  of  her  interest 
in  those  very  designs.  From  this  time  there  was  no  need 
of  putting  pressure  on  her  ;  her  own  springs  were  working ; 
the  fire  with  which  she  glowed  came  from  within.  Sacredly, 
brightly  single  she  would  remain  ;  her  only  espousals  would 
be  at  the  altar  of  a  great  cause.  Olive  always  absented 
herself  when  Mr.  Burrage  was  announced;  and  when 
Verena  afterwards  attempted  to  give  some  account  of  his 
conversation  she  checked  her,  said  she  would  rather  know 
nothing  about  it — all  with  a  very  solemn  mildness ;  this 
made  her  feel  very  superior,  truly  noble.  She  knew  by 
this  time  (I  scarcely  can  tell  how,  since  Verena  could  give 
her  no  report),  exactly  what  sort  of  a  youth  Mr.  Burrage 
was  :  he  was  weakly  pretentious,  softly  original,  cultivated 
eccentricity,  patronised  progress,  liked  to  have  mysteries, 
sudden  appointments  to  keep,  anonymous  persons  to  visit, 
the  air  of  leading  a  double  life,  of  being  devoted  to  a  girl 
whom  people  didn't  know,  or  at  least  didn't  meet.  Of 
course  he  liked  to  make  an  impression  on  Verena;  but 
what  he  mainly  liked  was  to  play  her  off  upon  the  other 


170  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

girls,  the  daughters  of  fashion,  with  whom  he  danced  at 
Papanti's.  Such  were  the  images  that  proceeded  from 
Olive's  rich  moral  consciousness.  'Well,  he  is  greatly 
interested  in  our  movement:'  so  much  Verena  once 
managed  to  announce ;  but  the  words  rather  irritated  Miss 
Chancellor,  who,  as  we  know,  did  not  care  to  allow  for 
accidental  exceptions  in  the  great  masculine  conspiracy. 

In  the  month  of  March  Verena  told  her  that  Mr.  Burrage 
was  offering  matrimony — offering  it  with  much  insistence, 
begging  that  she  would  at  least  wait  and  think  of  it  before 
giving  him  a  final  answer.  Verena  was  evidently  very  glad 
to  be  able  to  say  to  Olive  that  she  had  assured  him  she 
couldn't  think  of  it,  and  that  if  he  expected  this  he  had 
better  not  come  any  more.  He  continued  to  come,  and  it 
was  therefore  to  he  supposed  that  he  had  ceased  to  count 
on  such  a  concession ;  it  was  now  Olive's  opinion  that  he 
really  didn't  desire  it.  She  had  a  theory  that  he  proposed 
to  almost  any  girl  who  was  not  likely  to  accept  him — did 
it  because  he  was  making  a  collection  of  such  episodes — a 
mental  album  of  declarations,  blushes,  hesitations,  refusals 
that  just  missed  imposing  themselves  as  acceptances,  quite 
as  he  collected  enamels  and  Cremona  violins.  He  would 
be  very  sorry  indeed  to  ally  himself  to  the  house  of  Tarrant ; 
but  such  a  fear  didn't  prevent  him  from  holding  it  be- 
coming in  a  man  of  taste  to  give  that  encouragement  to 
low-born  girls  who  were  pretty,  for  one  looked  out  for  the 
special  cases  in  which,  for  reasons  (even  the  lowest  might 
have  reasons),  they  wouldn't  '  rise.'  '  I  told  you  I  wouldn't 
marry  him,  and  I  won't,'  Verena  said,  delightedly,  to  her 
friend ;  her  tone  suggested  that  a  certain  credit  belonged 
to  her  for  the  way  she  carried  out  her  assurance.  '  I  never 
thought  you  would,  if  you  didn't  want  to,'  Olive  replied  to 
this;  and  Verena  could  have  no  rejoinder  but  the  good- 
humour  that  sat  in  her  eyes,  unable  as  she  was  to  say  that 
she  had  wanted  to.  They  had  a  little  discussion,  however, 
when  she  intimated  that  she  pitied  him  for  his  discomfiture, 
Olive's  contention  being  that,  selfish,  conceited,  pampered 
and  insincere,  he  might  properly  be  left  now  to  digest  his 
affront.  Miss  Chancellor  felt  none  of  the  remorse  now 
that  she  would  have  felt  six  months  before  at  standing  in 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  171 

the  way  of  such  a  chance  for  Verena,  and  she  would  have 
been  very  angry  if  any  one  had  asked  her  if  she  were  not 
afraid  of  taking  too  much  upon  herself.  She  would  have 
said,  moreover,  that  she  stood  in  no  one's  way,  and  that 
even  if  she  were  not  there  Verena  would  never  think 
seriously  of  a  frivolous  little  man  who  fiddled  while  Rome 
was  burning.  This  did  not  prevent  Olive  from  making  up 
her  mind  that  they  had  better  go  to  Europe  in  the  spring ; 
a  year's  residence  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe  would  be 
highly  agreeable  to  Verena,  and  might  even  contribute  to 
the  evolution  of  her  genius.  It  cost  Miss  Chancellor  an 
effort  to  admit  that  any  virtue  still  lingered  in  the  elder 
world,  and  that  it  could  have  any  important  lesson  for  two 
such  good  Americans  as  her  friend  and  herself;  but  it 
suited  her  just  then  to  make  this  assumption,  which  was 
not  altogether  sincere.  It  was  recommended  by  the  idea 
that  it  would  get  her  companion  out  of  the  way — out  of  the 
way  of  officious  fellow-citizens — till  she  should  be  absolutely 
firm  on  her  feet,  and  would  also  give  greater  intensity 
to  their  own  long  conversation.  On  that  continent  of 
strangers  they  would  cleave  more  closely  still  to  each  other. 
This,  of  course,  would  be  to  fly  before  the  inevitable 
'phase,'  much  more  than  to  face  it;  but  Olive  decided 
that  if  they  should  reach  unscathed  the  term  of  their  delay 
(the  first  of  July)  she  should  have  faced  it  as  much  as 
either  justice  or  generosity  demanded.  I  may  as  well  say 
at  once  that  she  traversed  most  of  this  period  without 
further  serious  alarms  and  with  a  great  many  little  thrills  of 
bliss  and  hope. 

Nothing  happened  to  dissipate  the  good  omens  with 
which  her  partnership  with  Verena  Tarrant  was  at  present 
surrounded.  They  threw  themselves  into  study ;  they  had 
innumerable  big  books  from  the  Athenaeum,  and  consumed 
the  midnight  oil.  Henry  Burrage,  after  Verena  had  shaken 
her  head  at  him  so  sweetly  and  sadly,  returned  to  New  York, 
giving  no  sign ;  they  only  heard  that  he  had  taken  refuge 
under  the  ruffled  maternal  wing.  (Olive,  at  least,  took  for 
granted  the  wing  was  ruffled ;  she  could  fancy  how  Mrs. . 
Burrage  would  be  affected  by  the  knowledge  that  her  son 
had  been  refused  by  the  daughter  of  a  mesmeric  healer. 


172  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx, 

She  would  be  almost  as  angry  as  if  she  had  learnt  that  he 
had  been  accepted.)  Matthias  Pardon  had  not  yet  taken 
his  revenge  in  the  newspapers ;  he  was  perhaps  nursing 
his  thunderbolts ;  at  any  rate,  now  that  the  operatic  season 
had  begun,  he  was  much  occupied  in  interviewing  the 
principal  singers,  one  of  whom  he  described  in  one  of  the 
leading  journals  (Olive,  at  least,  was  sure  it  was  only  he 
who  could  write  like  that),  as  'a  dear  little  woman  with 
baby  dimples  and  kittenish  movements.'  The  Tarrants 
were  apparently  given  up  to  a  measure  of  sensual  ease  with 
which  they  had  not  hitherto  been  familiar,  thanks  to  the 
increase  of  income  that  they  drew  from  their  eccentric  pro- 
tectress. Mrs.  Tarrant  now  enjoyed  the  ministrations  of  a 
'  girl ' ;  it  was  partly  her  pride  (at  any  rate,  she  chose  to 
give  it  this  turn),  that  her  house  had  for  many  years  been 
conducted  without  the  element — so  debasing  on  both  sides 
— of  servile,  mercenary  labour.  She  wrote  to  Olive  (she 
was  perpetually  writing  to  her  now,  but  Olive  never  answered), 
that  she  was  conscious  of  having  fallen  to  a  lower  plane, 
but  she  admitted  that  it  was  a  prop  to  her  wasted  spirit  to 
have  some  one  to  converse  with  when  Selah  was  off. 
Verena,  of  course,  perceived  the  difference,  which  was  in- 
adequately explained  by  the  theory  of  a  sudden  increase  of 
her  father's  practice  (nothing  of  her  father's  had  ever 
increased  like  that),  and  ended  by  guessing  the  cause  of  it 
— a  discovery  which  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  her  equa- 
nimity. She  accepted  the  idea  that  her  parents  should 
receive  a  pecuniary  tribute  from  the  extraordinary  friend 
whom  she  had  encountered  on  the  threshold  of  woman- 
hood, just  as  she  herself  accepted  that  friend's  irresistible 
hospitality.  She  had  no  worldly  pride,  no  traditions  of 
independence,  no  ideas  of  what  was  done  and  what  was 
not  done ;  but  there  was  only  one  thing  that  equalled  this 
perfectly  gentle  and  natural  insensibility  to  favours — 
namely,  the  inveteracy  of  her  habit  of  not  asking  them. 
Olive  had  had  an  apprehension  that  she  would  flush  a  little 
at  learning  the  terms  on  which  they  should  now  be  able  to 
pursue  their  career  together ;  but  Verena  never  changed 
colour ;  it  was  either  not  new  or  not  disagreeable  to  her 
that  the  authors  of  her  being  should  be  bought  off,  silenced 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  173 

by  money,  treated  as  the  troublesome  of  the  lower  orders 
are  treated  when  they  are  not  locked  up ;  so  that  her  friend 
had  a  perception,  after  this,  that  it  would  probably  be  im- 
possible in  any  way  ever  to  offend  her.  She  was  too 
rancourless,  too  detached  from  conventional  standards,  too 
free  from  private  self-reference.  It  was  too  much  to  say  of 
her  that  she  forgave  injuries,  since  she  was  not  conscious  of 
them  ;  there  was  in  forgiveness  a  certain  arrogance  of  which 
she  was  incapable,  and  her  bright  mildness  glided  over  the 
many  traps  that  life  sets  for  our  consistency.  Olive  had 
always  held  that  pride  was  necessary  to  character,  but  there 
was  no  peculiarity  of  Verena's  that  could  make  her  spirit 
seem  less  pure.  The  added  luxuries  in  the  little  house  at 
Cambridge,  which  even  with  their  help  was  still  such  a 
penal  settlement,  made  her  feel  afresh  that  before  she  came 
to  the  rescue  the  daughter  of  that  house  had  traversed  a 
desert  of  sordid  misery.  She  had  cooked  and  washed  and 
swept  and  stitched ;  she  had  worked  harder  than  any  of 
Miss  Chancellor's  servants.  These  things  had  left  no  trace 
upon  her  person  or  her  mind ;  everything  fresh  and  fair 
renewed  itself  in  her  with  extraordinary  facility,  everything 
ugly  and  tiresome  evaporated  as  soon  as  it  touched  her ; 
but  Olive  deemed  that,  being  what  she  was,  she  had  a  right 
to  immense  compensations.  In  the  future  she  should  have 
exceeding  luxury  and  ease,  and  Miss  Chancellor  had  no 
difficulty  in  persuading  herself  that  persons  doing  the  high 
intellectual  and  moral  work  to  which  the  two  young  ladies 
in  Charles  Street  were  now  committed  owed  it  to  them- 
selves, owed  it  to  the  groaning  sisterhood,  to  cultivate  the 
best  material  conditions.  She  herself  was  nothing  of  a 
sybarite,  and  she  had  proved,  visiting  the  alleys  and  slums 
of  Boston  in  the  service  of  the  Associated  Charities,  that 
there  was  no  foulness  of  disease  or  misery  she  feared  to 
look  in  the  face ;  but  her  house  had  always  been  thoroughly 
well  regulated,  she  was  passionately  clean,  and  she  was  an 
excellent  woman  of  business.  Now,  however,  she  elevated 
daintiness  to  a  religion ;  her  interior  shone  with  superfluous 
friction,  with  punctuality,  with  winter  roses.  Among  these 
soft  influences  Verena  herself  bloomed  like  the  flower  that 
attains  such  perfection  in  Boston.  Olive  had  always  rated 


174  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

high  the  native  refinement  of  her  countrywomen,  their 
latent  '  adaptability/  their  talent  for  accommodating  them- 
selves at  a  glance  to  changed  conditions ;  but  the  way  her 
companion  rose  with  the  level  of  the  civilisation  that  sur- 
rounded her,  the  way  she  assimilated  all  delicacies  and  ab- 
sorbed all  traditions,  left  this  friendly  theory  halting  behind. 
The  winter  days  were  still,  indoors,  in  Charles  Street,  and 
the  winter  nights  secure  from  interruption.  Our  two  young 
women  had  plenty  of  duties,  but  Olive  had  never  favoured 
the  custom  of  running  in  and  out.  Much  conference  on 
social  and  reformatory  topics  went  forward  under  her  roof, 
and  she  received  her  colleagues — she  belonged  to  twenty 
associations  and  committees — only  at  preappointed  hours, 
which  she  expected  them  to  observe  rigidly.  Verena's 
share  in  these  proceedings  was  not  active;  she  hovered 
over  them,  smiling,  listening,  dropping  occasionally  a  fanciful 
though  never  an  idle  word,  like  some  gently  animated 
image  placed  there  for  good  omen.  It  was  understood 
that  her  part  was  before  the  scenes,  not  behind ;  that  she 
was  not  a  prompter,  but  (potentially,  at  least)  a  '  popular 
favourite,'  and  that  the  work  over  which  Miss  Chancellor 
presided  so  efficiently  was  a  general  preparation  of  the 
platform  on  which,  later,  her  companion  would  execute  the 
most  striking  steps. 

The  western  windows  of  Olive's  drawing-room,  looking 
over  the  water,  took  in  the  red  sunsets  of  winter ;  the  long, 
low  bridge  that  crawled,  on  its  staggering  posts,  across  the 
Charles ;  the  casual  patches  of  ice  and  snow ;  the  desolate 
suburban  horizons,  peeled  and  made  bald  by  the  rigour  of 
the  season ;  the  general  hard,  cold  void  of  the  prospect ; 
the  extrusion,  at  Charlestown,  at  Cambridge,  of  a  few 
chimneys  and  steeples,  straight,  sordid  tubes  of  factories 
and  engine-shops,  or  spare,  heavenward  finger  of  the  New 
England  meeting-house.  There  was  something  inexorable 
in  the  poverty  of  the  scene,  shameful  in  the  meanness  of 
its  details,  which  gave  a  collective  impression  of  boards 
and  tin  and  frozen  earth,  sheds  and  rotting  piles,  railway- 
lines  striding  flat  across  a  thoroughfare  of  puddles,  and 
tracks  of  the  humbler,  the  universal  horse-car,  traversing 
obliquely  this  path  of  danger;  loose  fences,  vacant  lots, 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  175 

mounds  of  refuse,  yards  bestrewn  with  iron  pipes,  telegraph 
poles,  and  bare  wooden  backs  of  places.  Verena  thought 
such  a  view  lovely,  and  she  was  by  no  means  without 
excuse  when,  as  the  afternoon  closed,  the  ugly  picture  was 
tinted  with  a  clear,  cold  rosiness.  The  air,  in  its  windless 
chill,  seemed  to  tinkle  like  a  crystal,  the  faintest  gradations 
of  tone  were  perceptible  in  the  sky,  the  west  became  deep 
and  delicate,  everything  grew  doubly  distinct  before  taking 
on  the  dimness  of  evening.  There  were  pink  flushes  on 
snow,  'tender'  reflections  in  patches  of  stiffened  marsh, 
sounds  of  car-bells,  no  longer  vulgar,  but  almost  silvery,  on 
the  long  bridge,  lonely  outlines  of  distant  dusky  undulations 
against  the  fading  glow.  These  agreeable  effects  used  to 
light  up  that  end  of  the  drawing-room,  and  Olive  often  sat 
at  the  window  with  her  companion  before  it  was  time  for 
the  lamp.  They  admired  the  sunsets,  they  rejoiced  in  the 
ruddy  spots  projected  upon  the  parlour-wall,  they  followed 
the  darkening  perspective  in  fanciful  excursions.  They 
watched  the  stellar  points  come  out  at  last  in  a  colder 
heaven,  and  then,  shuddering  a  little,  arm  in  arm,  they 
turned  away,  with  a  sense  that  the  winter  night  was  even 
more  cruel  than  the  tyranny  of  men — turned  back  to  drawn 
curtains  and  a  brighter  fire  and  a  glittering  tea-tray  and 
more  and  more  talk  about  the  long  martyrdom  of  women, 
a  subject  as  to  which  Olive  was  inexhaustible  and  really 
most  interesting.  There  were  some  nights  of  deep  snow- 
fall, when  Charles  Street  was  white  and  muffled  and  the 
door-bell  foredoomed  to  silence,  which  seemed  little  islands 
of  lamplight,  of  enlarged  and  intensified  vision.  They  read 
a  great  deal  of  history  together,  and  read  it  ever  with  the 
same  thought — that  of  finding  confirmation  in  it  for  this 
idea  that  their  sex  had  suffered  inexpressibly,  and  that  at 
any  moment  in  the  course  of  human  affairs  the  state  of  the 
world  would  have  been  so  much  less  horrible  (history 
seemed  to  them  in  every  way  horrible),  if  women  had  been 
able  to  press  down  the  scale.  Verena  was  full  of  sugges- 
tions which  stimulated  discussions;  it  was  she,  oftenest, 
who  kept  in  view  the  fact  that  a  good  many  women  in  the 
past  had  been  intrusted  with  power  and  had  not  always 
used  it  amiably,  who  brought  up  the  wicked  queens,  the 


1 76  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

profligate  mistresses  of  kings.  These  ladies  were  easily 
disposed  of  between  the  two,  and  the  public  crimes  of 
Bloody  Mary,  the  private  misdemeanours  of  Faustina,  wife 
of  the  pure  Marcus  Aurelius,  were  very  satisfactorily  classi- 
fied. If  the  influence  of  women  in  the  past  accounted  for 
every  act  of  virtue  that  men  had  happened  to  achieve,  it 
only  made  the  matter  balance  properly  that  the  influence 
of  men  should  explain  the  casual  irregularities  of  the  other 
sex.  Olive  could  see  how  few  books  had  passed  through 
Verena's  hands,  and  how  little  the  home  of  the  Tarrants 
had  been  a  house  of  reading ;  but  the  girl  now  traversed 
the  fields  of  literature  with  her  characteristic  lightness  of 
step.  Everything  she  turned  to  or  took  up  became  an 
illustration  of  the  facility,  the  '  giftedness,'  which  Olive,  who 
had  so  little  of  it,  never  ceased  to  wonder  at  and  prize. 
Nothing  frightened  her ;  she  always  smiled  at  it,  she  could 
do  anything  she  tried.  As  she  knew  how  to  do  other 
things,  she  knew  how  to  study ;  she  read  quickly  and 
remembered  infallibly  ;  could  repeat,  days  afterward, 
passages  that  she  appeared  only  to  have  glanced  at.  Olive, 
of  course,  was  more  and  more  happy  to  think  that  their 
cause  should  have  the  services  of  an  organisation  so  rare. 

All  this  doubtless  sounds  rather  dry,  and  I  hasten  to  add 
that  our  friends  were  not  always  shut  up  in  Miss  Chan- 
cellor's strenuous  parlour.  In  spite  of  Olive's  desire  to 
keep  her  precious  inmate  to  herself  and  to  bend  her  atten- 
tion upon  their  common  studies,  in  spite  of  her  constantly 
reminding  Verena  that  this  winter  was  to  be  purely  educa- 
tive and  that  the  platitudes  of  the  satisfied  and  unregenerate 
would  have  little  to  teach  her,  in  spite,  in  short,  of  the 
severe  and  constant  duality  of  our  young  women,  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  their  life  had  not  many  personal 
confluents  and  tributaries.  Individual  and  original  as  Miss 
Chancellor  was  universally  acknowledged  to  be,  she  was  yet 
a  typical  Bostonian,  and  as  a  typical  Bostonian  she  could 
not  fail  to  belong  in  some  degree  to  a  '  set.'  It  had  been 
said  of  her  that  she  was  in  it  but  not  of  it ;  but  she  was  of 
it  enough  to  go  occasionally  into  other  houses  and  to 
receive  their  occupants  in  her  own.  It  was  her  belief  that 
she  filled  her  tea-pot  with  the  spoon  of  hospitality,  and 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  177 

made  a  good  many  select  spirits  feel  that  they  were  welcome 
under  her  roof  at  convenient  hours.  She  had  a  preference 
for  what  she  called  real  people,  and  there  were  several 
whose  reality  she  had  tested  by  arts  known  to  herself.  This 
little  society  was  rather  suburban  and  miscellaneous  ;  it  was 
prolific  in  ladies  who  trotted  about,  early  and  late,  with 
books  from  the  Athenseum  nursed  behind  their  muff,  or 
little  nosegays  of  exquisite  flowers  that  they  were  carrying 
as  presents  to  each  other.  Verena,  who,  when  Olive  was 
not  with  her,  indulged  in  a  good  deal  of  desultory  con- 
templation at  the  window,  saw  them  pass  the  house  in 
Charles  Street,  always  apparently  straining  a  little,  as  if 
they  might  be  too  late  for  something.  At  almost  any  time, 
for  she  envied  their  preoccupation,  she  would  have  taken 
the  chance  with  them.  Very  often,  when  she  described 
them  to  her  mother,  Mrs.  Tarrant  didn't  know  who  they 
were ;  there  were  even  days  (she  had  so  many  discourage- 
ments) when  it  seemed  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  know.  So 
long  as  they  were  not  some  one  else,  it  seemed  to  be  no 
use  that  they  were  themselves;  whoever  they  were,  they 
were  sure  to  have  that  defect.  Even  after  all  her  mother's 
disquisitions  Verena  had  but  vague  ideas  as  to  whom  she 
would  have  liked  them  to  be ;  and  it  was  only  when  the 
girl  talked  of  the  concerts,  to  all  of  which  Olive  subscribed 
and  conducted  her  inseparable  friend,  that  Mrs.  Tarrant 
appeared  to  feel  in  any  degree  that  her  daughter  was  living 
up  to  the  standard  formed  for  her  in  their  Cambridge  home. 
As  all  the  world  knows,  the  opportunities  in  Boston  for 
hearing  good  music  are  numerous  and  excellent,  and  it 
had  long  been  Miss  Chancellor's  practice  to  cultivate  the 
best.  She  went  in,  as  the  phrase  is,  for  the  superior  pro- 
grammes, and  that  high,  dim,  dignified  Music  Hall,  which 
has  echoed  in  its  time  to  so  much  eloquence  and  so  much 
melody,  and  of  which  the  very  proportions  and  colour  seem 
to  teach  respect  and  attention,  shed  the  protection  of  its 
illuminated  cornice,  this  winter,  upon  no  faces  more  intelli- 
gently upturned  than  those  of  the  young  women  for  whom 
Bach  and  Beethoven  only  repeated,  in  a  myriad  forms,  the 
idea  that  was  always  with  them.  Symphonies  and  fugues 
only  stimulated  their  convictions,  excited  their  revolutionary 

N 


1 78  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

passion,  led  their  imagination  further  in  the  direction  in 
which  it  was  always  pressing.  It  lifted  them  to  immeasur- 
able heights ;  and  as  they  sat  looking  at  the  great  florid, 
sombre  organ,  overhanging  the  bronze  statue  of  Beethoven, 
they  felt  that  this  was  the  only  temple  in  which  the  votaries 
of  their  creed  could  worship. 

And  yet  their  music  was  not  their  greatest  joy,  for  they 
had  two  others  which  they  cultivated  at  least  as  zealously. 
One  of  these  was  simply  the  society  of  old  Miss  Birdseye, 
of  whom  Olive  saw  more  this  winter  than  she  had  ever  seen 
before.  It  had  become  apparent  that  her  long  and  beauti- 
ful career  was  drawing  to  a  close,  her  earnest,  unremitting 
work  was  over,  her  old-fashioned  weapons  were  broken  and 
dull.  Olive  would  have  liked  to  hang  them  up  as  venerable 
relics  of  a  patient  fight,  and  this  was  what  she  seemed  to  do 
when  she  made  the  poor  lady  relate  her  battles — never 
glorious  and  brilliant,  but  obscure  and  wastefully  heroic — 
call  back  the  figures  of  her  companions  in  arms,  exhibit  her 
medals  and  scars.  Miss  Birdseye  knew  that  her  uses  were 
ended  ;  she  might  pretend  still  to  go  about  the  business  of 
unpopular  causes,  might  fumble  for  papers  in  her  imme- 
morial satchel  and  think  she  had  important  appointments, 
might  sign  petitions,  attend  conventions,  say  to  Doctor 
Prance  that  if  she  would  only  make  her  sleep  she  should 
live  to  see  a  great  many  improvements  yet ;  she  ached  and 
was  weary,  growing  almost  as  glad  to  look  back  (a  great 
anomaly  for  Miss  Birdseye)  as  to  look  forward.  She  let 
herself  be  coddled  now  by  her  friends  of  the  new  genera- 
tion ;  there  were  days  when  she  seemed  to  want  nothing 
better  than  to  sit  by  Olive's  fire  and  ramble  on  about  the 
old  struggles,  with  a  vague,  comfortable  sense — no  physical 
rapture  of  Miss  Birdseye's  could  be  very  acute — of  im- 
munity from  wet  feet,  from  the  draughts  that  prevail  at  thin 
meetings,  of  independence  of  street-cars  that  would  probably 
arrive  overflowing ;  and  also  a  pleased  perception,  not  that 
she  was  an  example  to  these  fresh  lives  which  began  with 
more  advantages  than  hers,  but  that  she  was  in  some 
degree  an  encouragement,  as  she  helped  them  to  measure 
the  way  the  new  truths  had  advanced — being  able  to  tell 
them  of  such  a  different  state  of  things  when  she  was  a 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  179 

young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  very  talented  teacher  (indeed 
her  mother  had  been  a  teacher  too),  down  in  Connecticut. 
She  had  always  had  for  Olive  a  kind  of  aroma  of  martyrdom, 
and  her  battered,  unremunerated,  unpensioned  old  age 
brought  angry  tears,  springing  from  depths  of  outraged 
theory,  into  Miss  Chancellor's  eyes.  For  Verena,  too,  she 
was  a  picturesque  humanitary  figure.  Verena  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  meeting  martyrs  from  her  childhood  up,  but 
she  had  seen  none  with  so  many  reminiscences  as  Miss 
Birdseye,  or  who  had  been  so  nearly  scorched  by  penal 
fires.  She  had  had  escapes,  in  the  early  days  of  abolition- 
ism, which  it  was  a  marvel  she  could  tell  with  so  little 
implication  that  she  had  shown  courage.  She  had  roamed 
through  certain  parts  of  the  South,  carrying  the  Bible  to 
the  slave ;  and  more  than  one  of  her  companions,  in  the 
course  of  these  expeditions,  had  been  tarred  and  feathered. 
She  herself,  at  one  season,  had  spent  a  month  in  a  Georgian 
jail.  She  had  preached  temperance  in  Irish  circles  where 
the  doctrine  was  received  with  missiles ;  she  had  interfered 
between  wives  and  husbands  mad  with  drink;  she  had 
taken  filthy  children,  picked  up  in  the  street,  to  her  own 
poor  rooms,  and  had  removed  their  pestilent  rags  and 
washed  their  sore  bodies  with  slippery  little  hands.  In  her 
own  person  she  appeared  to  Olive  and  Verena  a  represent- 
ative of  suffering  humanity ;  the  pity  they  felt  for  her  was 
part  of  their  pity  for  all  who  were  weakest  and  most  hardly 
used ;  and  it  struck  Miss  Chancellor  (more  especially)  that 
this  frumpy  little  missionary  was  the  last  link  in  a  tradition, 
and  that  when  she  should  be  called  away  the  heroic  age  of 
New  England  life — the  age  of  plain  living  and  high  thinking, 
of  pure  ideals  and  earnest  effort,  of  moral  passion  and  noble 
experiment — would  effectually  be  closed.  It  was  the 
perennial  freshness  of  Miss  Birdseye's  faith  that  had  had 
such  a  contagion  for  these  modern  maidens,  the  unquenched 
flame  of  her  transcendentalism,  the  simplicity  of  her  vision, 
the  way  in  which,  in  spite  of  mistakes,  deceptions,  the 
changing  fashions  of  reform,  which  make  the  remedies  of  a 
previous  generation  look  as  ridiculous  as  their  bonnets,  the 
only  thing  that  was  still  actual  for  her  was  the  elevation  of 
the  species  by  the  reading  of  Emerson  and  the  frequentation 


i8o  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

of  Tremont  Temple.  Olive  had  been  active  enough,  for 
years,  in  the  city-missions;  she  too  had  scoured  dirty 
children,  and,  in  squalid  lodging-houses,  had  gone  into 
rooms  where  the  domestic  situation  was  strained  and  the 
noises  made  the  neighbours  turn  pale.  But  she  reflected 
that  after  such  exertions  she  had  the  refreshment  of  a  pretty 
house,  a  drawing-room  full  of  flowers,  a  crackling  hearth, 
where  she  threw  in  pine-cones  and  made  them  snap,  an 
imported  tea-service,  a  Chickering  piano,  and  the  Deutsche 
Rundschau ;  whereas  Miss  Birdseye  had  only  a  bare,  vulgar 
room,  with  a  hideous  flowered  carpet  (it  looked  like  a 
dentist's),  a  cold  furnace,  the  evening-paper,  and  Doctor 
Prance.  Olive  and  Verena  were  present  at  another  of  her 
gatherings  before  the  winter  ended ;  it  resembled  the 
occasion  that  we  described  at  the  beginning  of  this  history, 
with  the  difference  that  Mrs.  Farrinder  was  not  there  to 
oppress  the  company  with  her  greatness,  and  that  Verena 
made  a  speech  without  the  co-operation  of  her  father.  This 
young  lady  had  delivered  herself  with  even  finer  effect  than 
before,  and  Olive  could  see  how  much  she  had  gained,  in 
confidence  and  range  of  allusion,  since  the  educative  process 
in  Charles  Street  began.  Her  motif  was  now  a  kind  of 
unprepared  tribute  to  Miss  Birdseye,  the  fruit  of  the 
occasion  and  of  the  unanimous  tenderness  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  circle,  which  made  her  a  willing  mouth- 
piece. She  pictured  her  laborious  career,  her  early  asso- 
ciates (Eliza  P.  Moseley  was  not  neglected  as  Verena 
passed),  her  difficulties  and  dangers  and  triumphs,  her 
humanising  effect  upon  so  many,  her  serene  and  honoured 
old  age — expressed,  in  short,  as  one  of  the  ladies  said,  just 
the  very  way  they  all  felt  about  her.  Verena's  face 
brightened  and  grew  triumphant  as  she  spoke,  but  she 
brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  most  of  the  others.  It  was 
Olive's  opinion  that  nothing  could  be  more  graceful  and 
touching,  and  she  saw  that  the  impression  made  was  now 
deeper  than  on  the  former  evening.  Miss  Birdseye  went 
about  with  her  eighty  years  of  innocence,  her  undiscriminat- 
ing  spectacles,  asking  her  friends  if  it  wasn't  perfectly 
splendid  ;  she  took  none  of  it  to  herself,  she  regarded  it 
only  as  a  brilliant  expression  of  Verena's  gift.  Olive 


xx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  181 

thought,  afterwards,  that  if  a  collection  could  only  be  taken 
up  on  the  spot,  the  good  lady  would  be  made  easy  for  the 
rest  of  her  days ;  then  she  remembered  that  most  of  her 
guests  were  as  impecunious  as  herself. 

I  have  intimated  that  our  young  friends  had  a  source  of 
fortifying  emotion  which  was  distinct  from  the  hours  they 
spent  with  Beethoven  and  Bach,  or  in  hearing  Miss  Birds- 
eye  describe  Concord  as  it  used  to  be.  This  consisted  in 
the  wonderful  insight  they  had  obtained  into  the  history  of 
feminine  anguish.  They  perused  that  chapter  perpetually 
and  zealously,  and  they  derived  from  it  the  purest  part  of 
their  mission.  Olive  had  pored  over  it  so  long,  so 
earnestly,  that  she  was  now  in  complete  possession  of  the 
subject ;  it  was  the  one  thing  in  life  which  she  felt  she  had 
really  mastered.  She  was  able  to  exhibit  it  to  Verena  with 
the  greatest  authority  and  accuracy,  to  lead  her  up  and 
down,  in  and  out,  through  all  the  darkest  and  most  tortuous 
passages.  We  know  that  she  was  without  belief  in  her  own 
eloquence,  but  she  was  very  eloquent  when  she  reminded 
Verena  how  the  exquisite  weakness  of  women  had  never 
been  their  defence,  but  had  only  exposed  them  to  sufferings 
more  acute  than  masculine  grossness  can  conceive.  Their 
odious  partner  had  trampled  upon  them  from  the  beginning 
of  time,  and  their  tenderness,  their  abnegation,  had  been 
his  opportunity.  All  the  bullied  wives,  the  stricken 
mothers,  the  dishonoured,  deserted  maidens  who  have 
lived  on  the  earth  and  longed  to  leave  it,  passed  and 
repassed  before  her  eyes,  and  the  interminable  dim  proces- 
sion seemed  to  stretch  out  a  myriad  hands  to  her.  She 
sat  with  them  at  their  trembling  vigils,  listened  for  the 
tread,  the  voice,  at  which  they  grew  pale  and  sick,  walked 
with  them  by  the  dark  waters  that  offered  to  wash  away 
misery  and  shame,  took  with  them,  even,  when  the  vision 
grew  intense,  the  last  shuddering  leap.  She  had  analysed 
to  an  extraordinary  fineness  their  susceptibility,  their  soft- 
ness ;  she  knew  (or  she  thought  she  knew)  all  the  possible 
tortures  of  anxiety,  of  suspense  and  dread ;  and  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  women,  in  the  end,  who  had 
paid  for  everything.  In  the  last  resort  the  whole  burden 
of  the  human  lot  came  upon  them  ;  it  pressed  upon  them 


182  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xx. 

far  more  than  on  the  others,  the  intolerable  load  of  fate. 
It  was  they  who  sat  cramped  and  chained  to  receive  it ;  it 
was  they  who  had  done  all  the  waiting  and  taken  all  the 
wounds.  The  sacrifices,  the  blood,  the  tears,  the  terrors 
were  theirs.  Their  organism  was  in  itself  a  challenge  to 
suffering,  and  men  had  practised  upon  it  with  an  impudence 
that  knew  no  bounds.  As  they  were  the  weakest  most  had 
been  wrung  from  them,  and  as  they  were  the  most  generous 
they  had  been  most  deceived  Olive  Chancellor  would  have 
rested  her  case,  had  it  been  necessary,  on  those  general 
facts ;  and  her  simple  and  comprehensive  contention  was 
that  the  peculiar  wretchedness  which  had  been  the  very 
essence  of  the  feminine  lot  was  a  monstrous  artificial  im- 
position, crying  aloud  for  redress.  She  was  willing  to 
admit  that  women,  too,  could  be  bad;  that  there  were 
many  about  the  world  who  were  false,  immoral,  vile.  But 
their  errors  were  as  nothing  to  their  sufferings ;  they  had 
expiated,  in  advance,  an  eternity,  if  need  be,  of  misconduct. 
Olive  poured  forth  these  views  to  her  listening  and  respon- 
sive friend ;  she  presented  them  again  and  again,  and  there 
was  no  light  in  which  they  did  not  seem  to  palpitate  with 
truth.  Verena  was  immensely  wrought  upon  ;  a  subtle  fire 
passed  into  her;  she  was  not  so  hungry  for  revenge  as 
Olive,  but  at  the  last,  before  they  went  to  Europe  (I  shall 
take  no  place  to  describe  the  manner  in  which  she  threw 
herself  into  that  project),  she  quite  agreed  with  her  com- 
panion that  after  so  many  ages  of  wrong  (it  would  also  be 
after  the  European  journey)  men  must  take  their  turn,  men 
must  pay  ! 


BOOK    SECOND. 


XXI. 

BASIL  RANSOM  lived  in  New  York,  rather  far  to  the  east- 
ward, and  in  the  upper  reaches  of  the  town ;  he  occupied 
two  small  shabby  rooms  in  a  somewhat  decayed  mansion 
which  stood  next  to  the  corner  of  the  Second  Avenue. 
The  corner  itself  was  formed  by  a  considerable  grocer's 
shop,  the  near  neighbourhood  of  which  was  fatal  to  any 
pretensions  Ransom  and  his  fellow-lodgers  might  have  had 
in  regard  to  gentility  of  situation.  The  house  had  a  red, 
rusty  face,  and  faded  green  shutters,  of  which  the  slats  were 
limp  and  at  variance  with  each  other.  In  one  of  the  lower 
windows  was  suspended  a  fly-blown  card,  with  the  words 
{ Table  Board '  affixed  in  letters  cut  (not  very  neatly)  out 
of  coloured  paper,  of  graduated  tints,  and  surrounded  with 
a  small  band  of  stamped  gilt.  The  two  sides  of  the  shop 
were  protected  by  an  immense  pent-house  shed,  which  pro- 
jected over  a  greasy  pavement  and  was  supported  by  wooden 
posts  fixed  in  the  curbstone.  Beneath  it,  on  the  dislocated 
flags,  barrels  and  baskets  were  freely  and  picturesquely 
grouped ;  an  open  cellarway  yawned  beneath  the  feet  of 
those  who  might  pause  to  gaze  too  fondly  on  the  savoury 
wares  displayed  in  the  window ;  a  strong  odour  of  smoked 
fish,  combined  with  a  fragrance  of  molasses,  hung  about  the 
spot;  the  pavement,  toward  the  gutters,  was  fringed  with 
dirty  panniers,  heaped  with  potatoes,  carrots,  and  onions ; 
and  a  smart,  bright  waggon,  with  the  horse  detached  from 
the  shafts,  drawn  up  on  the  edge  of  the  abominable  road 
(it  contained  holes  and  ruts  a  foot  deep,  and  immemorial 
accumulations  of  stagnant  mud),  imparted  an  idle,  rural, 
pastoral  air  to  a  scene  otherwise  perhaps  expressive  of  a 
rank  civilisation.  The  establishment  was  of  the  kind  known 
to  New  Yorkers  as  a  Dutch  grocery;  and  red-faced, 


186  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxi. 

yellow -haired,  bare -armed  vendors  might  have  been  ob- 
served to  lounge  in  the  doorway.  I  mention  it  not  on 
account  of  any  particular  influence  it  may  have  had  on  the 
life  or  the  thoughts  of  Basil  Ransom,  but  for  old  acquaintance 
sake  and  that  of  local  colour;  besides  which,  a  figure  is 
nothing  without  a  setting,  and  our  young  man  came  and 
went  every  day,  with  rather  an  indifferent,  unperceiving  step, 
it  is  true,  among  the  objects  I  have  briefly  designated. 
One  of  his  rooms  was  directly  above  the  street-door  of  the 
house ;  such  a  dormitory,  when  it  is  so  exiguous,  is  called 
in  the  nomenclature  of  New  York  a  '  hall  bedroom. '  The 
sitting-room,  beside  it,  was  slightly  larger,  and  they  both 
commanded  a  row  of  tenements  no  less  degenerate  than 
Ransom's  own  habitation — houses  built  forty  years  before, 
and  already  sere  and  superannuated.  These  were  also 
painted  red,  and  the  bricks  were  accentuated  by  a  white 
line ;  they  were  garnished,  on  the  first  floor,  with  balconies 
covered  with  small  tin  roofs,  striped  in  different  colours, 
and  with  an  elaborate  iron  lattice-work,  which  gave  them  a 
repressive,  cage-like  appearance,  and  caused  them  slightly 
to  resemble  the  little  boxes  for  peeping  unseen  into  the 
street,  which  are  a  feature  of  oriental  towns.  Such  posts  of 
observation  commanded  a  view  of  the  grocery  on  the  corner, 
of  the  relaxed  and  disjointed  roadway,  enlivened  at  the 
curbstone  with  an  occasional  ash-barrel  or  with  gas-lamps 
drooping  from  the  perpendicular,  and  westward,  at  the  end 
of  the  truncated  vista,  of  the  fantastic  skeleton  of  the  Elevated 
Railway,  overhanging  the  transverse  longitudinal  street, 
which  it  darkened  and  smothered  with  the  immeasurable 
spinal  column  and  myriad  clutching  paws  of  an  antediluvian 
monster.  If  the  opportunity  were  not  denied  me  here,  I 
should  like  to  give  some  account  of  Basil  Ransom's  interior, 
of  certain  curious  persons  of  both  sexes,  for  the  most  part 
not  favourites  of  fortune,  who  had  found  an  obscure  asylum 
there  ;  some  picture  of  the  crumpled  little  table  d'hote^  at 
two  dollars  and  a  half  a  week,  where  everything  felt  sticky, 
which  went  forward  in  the  low-ceiled  basement,  under  the 
conduct  of  a  couple  of  shuffling  negresses,  who  mingled  in 
the  conversation  and  indulged  in  low,  mysterious  chuckles 
when  it  took  a  facetious  turn.  But  we  need,  in  strictness, 


xxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  187 

concern  ourselves  with  it  no  further  than  to  gather  the  im- 
plication that  the  young  Mississippian,  even  a  year  and  a 
half  after  that  momentous  visit  of  his  to  Boston,  had  not 
made  his  profession  very  lucrative. 

He  had  been  diligent,  he  had  been  ambitious,  but  he 
had  not  yet  been  successful.  During  the  few  weeks  pre- 
ceding the  moment  at  which  we  meet  him  again,  he  had 
even  begun  to  lose  faith  altogether  in  his  earthly  destiny. 
It  became  much  of  a  question  with  him  whether  success  in 
any  form  was  written  there ;  whether  for  a  hungry  young 
Mississippian,  without  means,  without  friends,  wanting,  too, 
in  the  highest  energy,  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  personal 
arts  and  national  prestige,  the  game  of  life  was  to  be  won 
in  New  York.  He  had  been  on  the  point  of  giving  it  up 
and  returning  to  the  home  of  his  ancestors,  where,  as  he 
heard  from  his  mother,  there  was  still  just  a  sufficient  supply 
of  hot  corn-cake  to  support  existence.  He  had  never  believed 
much  in  his  luck,  but  during  the  last  year  it  had  been 
guilty  of  aberrations  surprising  even  to  a  constant,  an  imper- 
turbable, victim  of  fate.  Not  only  had  he  not  extended  his 
connection,  but  he  had  lost  most  of  the  little  business 
which  was  an  object  of  complacency  to  him  a  twelvemonth 
before.  He  had  had  none  but  small  jobs,  and  he  had 
made  a  mess  of  more  than  one  of  them.  Such  accidents 
had  not  had  a  happy  effect  upon  his  reputation ;  he  had 
been  able  to  perceive  that  this  fair  flower  may  be  nipped 
when  it  is  so  tender  a  bud  as  scarcely  to  be  palpable.  He 
had  formed  a  partnership  with  a  person  who  seemed  likely 
to  repair  some  of  his  deficiencies — a  young  man  from  Rhode 
Island,  acquainted,  according  to  his  own  expression,  with 
the  inside  track.  But  this  gentleman  himself,  as  it  turned 
out,  would  have  been  better  for  a  good  deal  of  remodelling, 
and  Ransom's  principal  deficiency,  which  was,  after  all,  that 
of  cash,  was  not  less  apparent  to  him  after  his  colleague, 
prior  to  a  sudden  and  unexplained  departure  for  Europe, 
had  drawn  the  slender  accumulations  of  the  firm  out  of  the 
bank.  Ransom  sat  for  hours  in  his  office,  waiting  for  clients 
who  either  did  not  come,  or,  if  they  did  come,  did  not  seem 
to  find  him  encouraging,  as  they  usually  left  him  with  the  re- 
mark that  they  would  think  what  they  would  do.  They  thought 


188  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxi. 

to  little  purpose,  and  seldom  reappeared,  so  that  at  last  he 
began  to  wonder  whether  there  were  not  a  prejudice  against 
his  Southern  complexion.  Perhaps  they  didn't  like  the  way 
he  spoke.  If  they  could  show  him  a  better  way,  he  was 
willing  to  adopt  it;  but  the  manner  of  New  York  could  not  be 
acquired  by  precept,  and  example,  somehow,  was  not  in  this 
case  contagious.  He  wondered  whether  he  were  stupid  and 
unskilled,  and  he  was  finally  obliged  to  confess  to  himself 
that  he  was  unpractical. 

This  confession  was  in  itself  a  proof  of  the  fact,  for 
nothing  could  be  less  fruitful  than  such  a  speculation, 
terminating  in  such  a  way.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that 
he  cared  a  great  deal  for  the  theory,  and  so  his  visitors 
must  have  thought  when  they  found  him,  with  one  of  his 
long  legs  twisted  round  the  other,  reading  a  volume  of  De 
Tocqueville.  That  was  the  kind  of  reading  he  liked ;  he 
had  thought  a  great  deal  about  social  and  economical  ques- 
tions, forms  of  government  and  the  happiness  of  peoples. 
The  convictions  he  had  arrived  at  were  not  such  as  mix 
gracefully  with  the  time-honoured  verities  a  young  lawyer 
looking  out  for  business  is  in  the  habit  of  taking  for  granted ; 
but  he  had  to  reflect  that  these  doctrines  would  probably 
not  contribute  any  more  to  his  prosperity  in  Mississippi 
than  in  New  York.  Indeed,  he  scarcely  could  think  of  the 
country  where  they  would  be  a  particular  advantage  to  him. 
It  came  home  to  him  that  his  opinions  were  stiff,  whereas 
in  comparison  his  effort  was  lax;  and  he  accordingly 
began  to  wonder  whether  he  might  not  make  a  living  by 
his  opinions.  He  had  always  had  a  desire  for  public  life ; 
to  cause  one's  ideas  to  be  embodied  in  national  conduct 
appeared  to  him  the  highest  form  of  human  enjoyment. 
But  there  was  little  enough  that  was  public  in  his  solitary 
studies,  and  he  asked  himself  what  was  the  use  of  his  having 
an  office  at  all,  and  why  he  might  not  as  well  carry  on  his 
profession  at  the  Astor  Library,  where,  in  his  spare  hours 
and  on  chance  holidays,  he  did  an  immense  deal  of  sugges- 
tive reading.  He  took  copious  notes  and  memoranda,  and 
these  things  sometimes  shaped  themselves  in  a  way  that 
might  possibly  commend  them  to  the  editors  of  periodicals. 
Readers  perhaps  would  come,  if  clients  didn't;  so  he 


xxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  189 

produced,  with  a  great  deal  of  labour,  half  a  dozen  articles, 
from  which,  when  they  were  finished,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  omitted  all  the  points  he  wished  most  to  make,  and 
addressed  them  to  the  powers  that  preside  over  weekly  and 
monthly  publications.  They  were  all  declined  with  thanks, 
and  he  would  have  been  forced  to  believe  that  the  accent 
of  his  languid  clime  brought  him  luck  as  little  under  the 
pen  as  on  the  lips,  had  not  another  explanation  been 
suggested  by  one  of  the  more  explicit  of  his  oracles,  in 
relation  to  a  paper  on  the  rights  of  minorities.  This 
gentleman  pointed  out  that  his  doctrines  were  about  three 
hundred  years  behind  the  age;  doubtless  some  magazine 
of  the  sixteenth  century  would  have  been  very  happy  to 
print  them.  This  threw  light  on  his  own  suspicion  that  he 
was  attached  to  causes  that  could  only,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  be  unpopular.  The  disagreeable  editor  was  right 
about  his  being  out  of  date,  only  he  had  got  the  time  wrong. 
He  had  come  centuries  too  soon ;  he  was  not  too  old,  but 
too  new.  Such  an  impression,  however,  would  not  have 
prevented  him  from  going  into  politics,  if  there  had  been 
any  other  way  to  represent  constituencies  than  by  being 
elected.  People  might  be  found  eccentric  enough  to  vote 
for  him  in  Mississippi,  but  meanwhile  where  should  he  find 
the  twenty-dollar  greenbacks  which  it  was  his  ambition  to 
transmit  from  time  to  time  to  his  female  relations,  confined 
so  constantly  to  a  farinaceous  diet  ?  It  came  over  him  with 
some  force  that  his  opinions  would  not  yield  interest,  and 
the  evaporation  of  this  pleasing  hypothesis  made  him  feel 
like  a  man  in  an  open  boat,  at  sea,  who  should  just  have 
parted  with  his  last  rag  of  canvas. 

I  shall  not  attempt  a  complete  description  of  Ransom's 
ill-starred  views,  being  convinced  that  the  reader  will  guess 
them  as  he  goes,  for  they  had  a  frolicsome,  ingenious  way 
of  peeping  out  of  the  young  man's  conversation.  I  shall 
do  them  sufficient  justice  in  saying  that  he  was  by  natural 
disposition  a  good  deal  of  a  stoic,  and  that,  as  the  result  of  a 
considerable  intellectual  experience,  he  was,  in  social  and 
political  matters,  a  reactionary.  I  suppose  he  was  very 
conceited,  for  he  was  much  addicted  to  judging  his  age. 
He  thought  it  talkative,  querulous,  hysterical,  maudlin,  full 


igo  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxi. 

of  false  ideas,  of  unhealthy  germs,  of  extravagant,  dissipated 
habits,  for  which  a  great  reckoning  was  in  store.  He  was 
an  immense  admirer  of  the  late  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  was 
very  suspicious  of  the  encroachments  of  modern  democracy. 
I  know  not  exactly  how  these  queer  heresies  had  planted 
themselves,  but  he  had  a  longish  pedigree  (it  had  flowered 
at  one  time  with  English  royalists  and  cavaliers),  and  he 
seemed  at  moments  to  be  inhabited  by  some  transmitted 
spirit  of  a  robust  but  narrow  ancestor,  some  broad-faced 
wig-wearer  or  sword-bearer,  with  a  more  primitive  conception 
of  manhood  than  our  modern  temperament  appears  to 
require,  and  a  programme  of  human  felicity  much  less 
varied.  He  liked  his  pedigree,  he  revered  his  forefathers, 
and  he  rather  pitied  those  who  might  come  after  him.  In 
saying  so,  however,  I  betray  him  a  little,  for  he  never  men- 
tioned such  feelings  as  these.  Though  he  thought  the  age 
too  talkative,  as  I  have  hinted,  he  liked  to  talk  as  well  as 
any  one ;  but  he  could  hold  his  tongue,  if  that  were  more 
expressive,  and  he  usually  did  so  when  his  perplexities  were 
greatest.  He  had  been  sitting  for  several  evenings  in  a 
beer-cellar,  smoking  his  pipe  with  a  profundity  of  reticence. 
This  attitude  was  so  unbroken  that  it  marked  a  crisis — the 
complete,  the  acute  consciousness  of  his  personal  situation. 
It  was  the  cheapest  way  he  knew  of  spending  an  evening. 
At  this  particular  establishment  the  Schoppen  were  very  tall 
and  the  beer  was  very  good ;  and  as  the  host  and  most  of 
the  guests  were  German,  and  their  colloquial  tongue  was 
unknown  to  him,  he  was  not  drawn  into  any  undue  expendi- 
ture of  speech.  He  watched  his  smoke  and  he  thought, 
thought  so  hard  that  at  last  he  appeared  to  himself  to  have 
exhausted  the  thinkable.  When  this  moment  of  combined 
relief  and  dismay  arrived  (on  the  last  of  the  evenings  that 
we  are  concerned  with),  he  took  his  way  down  Third  Ave- 
nue and  reached  his  humble  dwelling.  Till  within  a  short 
time  there  had  been  a  resource  for  him  at  such  an  hour 
and  in  such  a  mood ;  a  little  variety-actress,  who  lived  in 
the  house,  and  with  whom  he  had  established  the  most 
cordial  relations,  was  often  having  her  supper  (she  took  it 
somewhere,  every  night,  after  the  theatre),  in  the  dim,  close 
dining-room,  and  he  used  to  drop  in  and  talk  to  her.  But 


xxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  191 

she  had  lately  married,  to  his  great  amusement,  and  her 
husband  had  taken  her  on  a  wedding-tour,  which  was  to  be 
at  the  same  time  professional.  On  this  occasion  he 
mounted,  with  rather  a  heavy  tread,  to  his  rooms,  where 
(on  the  rickety  writing-table  in  the  parlour)  he  found  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Luna.  I  need  not  reproduce  it  in  extenso ;  a 
pale  reflection  of  it  will  serve.  She  reproached  him  with 
neglecting  her,  wanted  to  know  what  had  become  of  him, 
whether  he  had  grown  too  fashionable  for  a  person  who 
cared  only  for  serious  society.  She  accused  him  of  having 
changed,  and  inquired  as  to  the  reason  of  his  coldness. 
Was  it  too  much  to  ask  whether  he  could  tell  her  at  least 
in  what  manner  she  had  offended  him  ?  She  used  to  think 
they  were  so  much  in  sympathy — he  expressed  her  own 
ideas  about  everything  so  vividly.  She  liked  intellectual 
companionship,  and  she  had  none  now.  She  hoped  very 
much  he  would  come  and  see  her — as  he  used  to  do  six 
months  before — the  following  evening ;  and  however  much 
she  might  have  sinned  or  he  might  have  altered,  she  was  at 
least  always  his  affectionate  cousin  Adeline. 

'What  the  deuce  does  she  want  of  me  now?'  It  was 
with  this  somewhat  ungracious  exclamation  that  he  tossed 
away  his  cousin  Adeline's  missive.  The  gesture  might  have 
indicated  that  he  meant  to  take  no  notice  of  her;  never- 
theless, after  a  day  had  elapsed,  he  presented  himself  before 
her.  He  knew  what  she  -wanted  of  old — that  is,  a  year 
ago ;  she  had  wanted  him  to  look  after  her  property  and  to 
be  tutor  to  her  son.  He  had  lent  himself,  good-naturedly, 
to  this  desire — he  was  touched  by  so  much  confidence — but 
the  experiment  had  speedily  collapsed.  Mrs.  Luna's  affairs 
were  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  who  had  complete  care  of 
them,  and  Ransom  instantly  perceived  that  his  function 
would  be  simply  to  meddle  in  things  that  didn't  concern 
him.  The  levity  with  which  she  had  exposed  him  to  the 
derision  of  the  lawful  guardians  of  her  fortune  opened  his 
eyes  to  some  of  the  dangers  of  cousinship ;  nevertheless  he 
said  to  himself  that  he  might  turn  an  honest  penny  by 
giving  an  hour  or  two  every  day  to  the  education  of  her 
little  boy.  But  this,  too,  proved  a  brief  illusion.  Ransom 
had  to  find  his  time  in  the  afternoon ;  he  left  his  business 


192  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxi. 

at  five  o'clock  and  remained  with  his  young  kinsman  till 
the  hour  of  dinner.  At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  he  thought 
himself  lucky  in  retiring  without  broken  shins.  That 
Newton's  little  nature  was  remarkable  had  often  been  insisted 
on  by  his  mother;  but  it  was  remarkable,  Ransom  saw,  for 
the  absence  of  any  of  the  qualities  which  attach  a  teacher 
to  a  pupil.  He  was  in  truth  an  insufferable  child,  enter- 
taining for  the  Latin  language  a  personal,  physical  hostility, 
which  expressed  itself  in  convulsions  of  rage.  During  these 
paroxysms  he  kicked  furiously  at  every  one  and  everything 
— at  poor  '  Rannie,'  at  his  mother,  at  Messrs.  Andrews  and 
Stoddard,  at  the  illustrious  men  of  Rome,  at  the  universe 
in  general,  to  which,  as  he  lay  on  his  back  on  the  carpet, 
he  presented  a  pair  of  singularly  active  little  heels.  Mrs. 
Luna  had  a  way  of  being  present  at  his  lessons,  and  when 
they  passed,  as  sooner  or  later  they  were  sure  to,  into  the 
stage  I  have  described,  she  interceded  for  her  overwrought 
darling,  reminded  Ransom  that  these  were  the  signs  of  an 
exquisite  sensibility,  begged  that  the  child  might  be  allowed 
to  rest  a  little,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  time  in  con- 
versation with  the  preceptor.  It  came  to  seem  to  him, 
very  soon,  that  he  was  not  earning  his  fee ;  besides  which, 
it  was  disagreeable  to  him  to  have  pecuniary  relations  with 
a  lady  who  had  not  the  art  of  concealing  from  him  that  she 
liked  to  place  him  under  obligations.  He  resigned  his 
tutorship,  and  drew  a  long  breath,  having  a  vague  feeling 
that  he  had  escaped  a  danger.  He  could  not  have  told 
you  exactly  what  it  was,  and  he  had  a  certain  sentimental, 
provincial  respect  for  women  which  even  prevented  him  from 
attempting  to  give  a  name  to  it  in  his  own  thoughts.  He 
was  addicted  with  the  ladies  to  the  old  forms  of  address 
and  of  gallantry ;  he  held  that  they  were  delicate,  agreeable 
creatures,  whom  Providence  had  placed  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  bearded  sex ;  and  it  was  not  merely  a  humorous 
idea  with  him  that  whatever  might  be  the  defects  of  South- 
ern gentlemen,  they  were  at  any  rate  remarkable  for  their 
chivalry.  He  was  a  man  who  still,  in  a  slangy  age,  could 
pronounce  that  word  with  a  perfectly  serious  face. 

This  boldness  did  not  prevent  him  from  thinking  that 
women  were  essentially  inferior  to  men,  and  infinitely  tire- 


xxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  193 

some  when  they  declined  to  accept  the  lot  which  men  had 
made  for  them.  He  had  the  most  definite  notions  about 
their  place  in  nature,  in  society,  and  was  perfectly  easy  in 
his  mind  as  to  whether  it  excluded  them  from  any  proper 
homage.  The  chivalrous  man  paid  that  tax  with  alacrity. 
He  admitted  their  rights;  these  consisted  in  a  standing 
claim  to  the  generosity  and  tenderness  of  the  stronger  race. 
The  exercise  of  such  feelings  was  full  of  advantage  for  both 
sexes,  and  they  flowed  most  freely,  of  course,  when  women 
were  gracious  and  grateful.  It  may  be  said  that  he  had  a 
higher  conception  of  politeness  than  most  of  the  persons 
who  desired  the  advent  of  female  law-makers.  When  I 
have  added  that  he  hated  to  see  women  eager  and  argu- 
mentative, and  thought  that  their  softness  and  docility  were 
the  inspiration,  the  opportunity  (the  highest)  of  man,  I  shall 
have  sketched  a  state  of  mind  which  will  doubtless  strike 
many  readers  as  painfully  crude.  It  had  prevented  Basil 
Ransom,  at  any  rate,  from  putting  the  dots  on  his  *'s,  as 
the  French  say,  in  this  gradual  discovery  that  Mrs.  Luna 
was  making  love  to  him.  The  process  went  on  a  long  time 
before  he  became  aware  of  it.  He  had  perceived  very  soon 
that  she  was  a  tremendously  familiar  little  woman — that  she 
took,  more  rapidly  than  he  had  ever  known,  a  high  degree 
of  intimacy  for  granted.  But  as  she  had  seemed  to  him 
neither  very  fresh  nor  very  beautiful,  so  he  could  not  easily 
have  represented  to  himself  why  she  should  take  it  into  her 
head  to  marry  (it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him  to 
doubt  that  she  wanted  marriage),  an  obscure  and  penniless 
Mississippian,  with  womenkind  of  his  own  to  provide  for. 
He  could  not  guess  that  he  answered  to  a  certain  secret 
ideal  of  Mrs.  Luna's,  who  loved  the  landed  gentry  even 
when  landless,  who  adored  a  Southerner  under  any  circum- 
stances, who  thought  her  kinsman  a  fine,  manly,  melan- 
choly, disinterested  type,  and  who  was  sure  that  her  views 
of  public  matters,  the  questions  of  the  age,  the  vulgar 
character  of  modern  life,  would  meet  with  a  perfect  response 
in  his  mind.  She  could  see  by  the  way  he  talked  that  he 
was  a  conservative,  and  this  was  the  motto  inscribed  upon 
her  own  silken  banner.  She  took  this  unpopular  line  both 
by  temperament  and  by  reaction  from  her  sister's  '  extreme ' 

o 


194  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxi. 

views,  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  people  that  they  brought 
about  her.  In  reality,  Olive  was  distinguished  and  discrimi- 
nating, and  Adeline  was  the  dupe  of  confusions  in  which 
the  worse  was  apt  to  be  mistaken  for  the  better.  She  talked 
to  Ransom  about  the  inferiority  of  republics,  the  distressing 
persons  she  had  met  abroad  in  the  legations  of  the  United 
States,  the  bad  manners  of  servants  and  shopkeepers  in 
that  country,  the  hope  she  entertained  that  'the  good 
old  families '  would  make  a  stand ;  but  he  never  suspected 
that  she  cultivated  these  topics  (her  treatment  of  them 
struck  him  as  highly  comical),  for  the  purpose  of  leading 
him  to  the  altar,  of  beguiling  the  way.  Least  of  all  could 
he  suppose  that  she  would  be  indifferent  to  his  want  of 
income — a  point  in  which  he  failed  to  do  her  justice ;  for, 
thinking  the  fact  that  he  had  remained  poor  a  proof  of 
delicacy  in  that  shopkeeping  age,  it  gave  her  much  pleasure 
to  reflect  that,  as  Newton's  little  property  was  settled  on 
him  (with  safeguards  which  showed  how  long-headed  poor 
Mr.  Luna  had  been,  and  large-hearted,  too,  since  to  what 
he  left  her  no  disagreeable  conditions,  such  as  eternal 
mourning,  for  instance,  were  attached) — that  as  Newton,  I 
say,  enjoyed  the  pecuniary  independence  which  befitted  his 
character,  her  own  income  was  ample  even  for  two,  and  she 
might  give  herself  the  luxury  of  taking  a  husband  who 
should  owe  her  something.  Basil  Ransom  did  not  divine 
all  this,  but  he  divined  that  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  Mrs. 
Luna  wrote  him  little  notes  every  other  day,  that  she  pro- 
posed to  drive  him  in  the  Park  at  unnatural  hours,  and 
that  when  he  said  he  had  his  business  to  attend  to,  she 
replied  :  '  Oh,  a  plague  on  your  business  1  I  am  sick  of 
that  word — one  hears  of  nothing  else  in  America.  There 
are  ways  of  getting  on  without  business,  if  you  would  only 
take  them !'  He  seldom  answered  her  notes,  and  he  dis- 
liked extremely  the  way  in  which,  in  spite  of  her  love  of 
form  and  order,  she  attempted  to  clamber  in  at  the  window 
of  one's  house  when  one  had  locked  the  door ;  so  that  he 
began  to  interspace  his  visits  considerably,  and  at  last  made 
them  very  rare.  When  I  reflect  on  his  habits  of  almost 
superstitious  politeness  to  women,  it  comes  over  me  that 
some  very  strong  motive  must  have  operated  to  make  him 


xxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  195 

give  his  friendly — his  only  too  friendly — cousin  the  cold 
shoulder.  Nevertheless,  when  he  received  her  reproachful 
letter  (after  it  had  had  time  to  work  a  little),  he  said  to  himself 
that  he  had  perhaps  been  unjust  and  even  brutal,  and  as 
he  was  easily  touched  by  remorse  of  this  kind,  he  took  up 
the  broken  thread. 


XXII. 

As  he  sat  with  Mrs.  Luna,  in  her  little  back  drawing-room, 
under  the  lamp,  he  felt  rather  more  tolerant  than  before  of 
the  pressure  she  could  not  help  putting  upon  him.  Several 
months  had  elapsed,  and  he  was  no  nearer  to  the  sort  of 
success  he  had  hoped  for.  It  stole  over  him  gently  that 
there  was  another  sort,  pretty  visibly  open  to  him,  not  so 
elevated  nor  so  manly,  it  is  true,  but  on  which  he  should 
after  all,  perhaps,  be  able  to  reconcile  it  with  his  honour  to 
fall  back.  Mrs.  Luna  had  had  an  inspiration ;  for  once  in 
her  life  she  had  held  her  tongue.  She  had  not  made  him 
a  scene,  there  had  been  no  question  of  an  explanation ;  she 
had  received  him  as  if  he  had  been  there  the  day  before, 
with  the  addition  of  a  spice  of  mysterious  melancholy.  She 
might  have  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had  lost  him  as 
what  she  had  hoped,  but  that  it  was  better  than  desolation 
to  try  and  keep  him  as  a  friend.  It  was  as  if  she  wished 
him  to  see  now  how  she  tried.  She  was  subdued  and  con- 
solatory, she  waited  upon  him,  moved  away  a  screen  that 
intercepted  the  fire,  remarked  that  he  looked  very  tired, 
and  rang  for  some  tea.  She  made  no  inquiry  about  his 
affairs,  never  asked  if  he  had  been  busy  and  prosperous ; 
and  this  reticence  struck  him  as  unexpectedly  delicate  and 
discreet ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  guessed,  by  a  subtle  feminine 
faculty,  that  his  professional  career  was  nothing  to  boast  of. 
There  was  a  simplicity  in  him  which  permitted  him  to 
wonder  whether  she  had  not  improved.  The  lamp-light 
was  soft,  the  fire  crackled  pleasantly,  everything  that 
surrounded  him  betrayed  a  woman's  taste  and  touch; 
the  place  was  decorated  and  cushioned  in  perfection, 
delightfully  private  and  personal,  the  picture  of  a  well- 
appointed  home.  Mrs.  Luna  had  complained  of  the 


xxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  197 

difficulties  of  installing  one's  self  in  America,  but  Ransom 
remembered  that  he  had  received  an  impression  similar  to 
this  in  her  sister's  house  in  Boston,  and  reflected  that  these 
ladies  had,  as  a  family-trait,  the  art  of  making  themselves 
comfortable.  It  was  better  for  a  winter's  evening  than  the 
German  beer-cellar  (Mrs.  Luna's  tea  was  excellent),  and  his 
hostess  herself  appeared  to-night  almost  as  amiable  as  the 
variety-actress..  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  felt,  I  will  not 
say  almost  marriageable,  but  almost  married.  Images  of 
leisure  played  before  him,  leisure  in  which  he  saw  himself 
covering  foolscap  paper  with  his  views  on  several  subjects, 
and  with  favourable  illustrations  of  Southern  eloquence.  It 
became  tolerably  vivid  to  him  that  if  editors  wouldn't  print 
one's  lucubrations,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  feel  that  one 
was  able  to  publish  them  at  one's  own  expense. 

He  had  a  moment  of  almost  complete  illusion.  Mrs. 
Luna  had  taken  up  her  bit  of  crochet;  she  was  sitting 
opposite  to  him,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  Her  white 
hands  moved  with  little  jerks  as  she  took  her  stitches,  and 
her  rings  flashed  and  twinkled  in  the  light  of  the  hearth. 
Her  head  fell  a  little  to  one  side,  exhibiting  the  plumpness 
of  her  chin  and  neck,  and  her  dropped  eyes  (it  gave  her  a 
little  modest  air),  rested  quietly  on  her  work.  A  silence  of 
a  few  moments  had  fallen  upon  their  talk,  and  Adeline — 
who  decidedly  had  improved — appeared  also  to  feel  the 
charm  of  it,  not  to  wish  to  break  it.  Basil  Ransom  was 
conscious  of  all  this,  and  at  the  same  time  he  was  vaguely 
engaged  in  a  speculation.  If  it  gave  one  time,  if  it  gave 
one  leisure,  was  not  that  in  itself  a  high  motive  ?  Thorough 
study  of  the  question  he  cared  for  most — was  not  the 
chance  for  that  an  infinitely  desirable  good  ?  He  seemed 
to  see  himself,  to  feel  himself,  in  that  very  chair,  in  the 
evenings  of  the  future,  reading  some  indispensable  book 
in  the  still  lamp-light — Mrs.  Luna  knew  where  to  get  such 
pretty  mellowing  shades.  Should  he  not  be  able  to  act  in 
that  way  upon  the  public  opinion  of  his  time,  to  check 
certain  tendencies,  to  point  out  certain  dangers,  to  indulge 
in  much  salutary  criticism  ?  Was  it  not  one's  duty  to  put 
one's  self  in  the  best  conditions  for  such  action  ?  And  as 
the  silence  continued  he  almost  fell  to  musing  on  his  duty, 


198  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

almost  persuaded  himself  that  the  moral  law  commanded 
him  to  marry  Mrs.  Luna.  She  looked  up  presently  from 
her  work,  their  eyes  met,  and  she  smiled.  He  might  have 
believed  she  had  guessed  what  he  was  thinking  of.  This  idea 
startled  him,  alarmed  him  a  little,  so  that  when  Mrs.  Luna 
said,  with  her  sociable  manner,  '  There  is  nothing  I  like  so 
much,  of  a  winter's  night,  as  a  cosy  tite-cl-tete  by  the  fire. 
It's  quite  like  Darby  and  Joan ;  what  a  pity  the  kettle  has 
ceased  singing  !' — when  she  uttered  these  insinuating  words 
he  gave  himself  a  little  imperceptible  shake,  which  was, 
however,  enough  to  break  the  spell,  and  made  no  response 
more  direct  than  to  ask  her,  in  a  moment,  in  a  tone  of 
cold,  mild  curiosity,  whether  she  had  lately  heard  from  her 
sister,  and  how  long  Miss  Chancellor  intended  to  remain  in 
Europe. 

'Well,  you  have  been  living  in  your  hole!'  Mrs.  Luna 
exclaimed.  '  Olive  came  home  six  weeks  ago.  How  long 
did  you  expect  her  to  endure  it?' 

'  I  am  sure  I  don't  know ;  I  have  never  been  there,' 
Ransom  replied. 

'  Yes,  that's  what  I  like  you  for/  Mrs.  Luna  remarked 
sweetly.  '  If  a  man  is  nice  without  it,  it's  such  a  pleasant 
change.' 

The  young  man  started,  then  gave  a  natural  laugh. 
'Lord,  how  few  reasons  there  must  be  !' 

'  Oh,  I  mention  that  one  because  I  can  tell  it.  I 
shouldn't  care  to  tell  the  others.' 

'  1  am  glad  you  have  some  to  fall  back  upon,  the  day  I 
should  go,'  Ransom  went  on.  '  I  thought  you  thought  so 
much  of  Europe.' 

'So  I  do ;  but  it  isn't  everything,'  said  Mrs.  Luna, 
philosophically.  '  You  had  better  go  there  with  me/  she 
added,  with  a  certain  inconsequence. 

'  One  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  world  with  so  irresistible 
a  lady ! '  Ransom  exclaimed,  falling  into  the  tone  which 
Mrs.  Luna  always  found  so  unsatisfactory.  It  was  a  part 
of  his  Southern  gallantry — his  accent  always  came  out 
strongly  when  he  said  anything  of  that  sort  —  and  it 
committed  him  to  nothing  in  particular.  She  had  had 
occasion  to  wish,  more  than  once,  that  he  wouldn't  be  so 


xxn.  THE  BOSTON1ANS.  199 

beastly  polite,  as  she  used  to  hear  people  say  in  England. 
She  answered  that  she  didn't  care  about  ends,  she  cared 
about  beginnings ;  but  he  didn't  take  up  the  declaration  ;  he 
returned  to  the  subject  of  Olive,  wanted  to  know  what  she 
had  done  over  there,  whether  she  had  worked  them  up  much. 

'Oh,  of  course,  she  fascinated  every  one,'  said  Mrs. 
Luna.  '  With  her  grace  and  beauty,  her  general  style,  how 
could  she  help  that?' 

'  But  did  she  bring  them  round,  did  she  swell  the  host 
that  is  prepared  to  march  under  her  banner?' 

*  I  suppose  she  saw  plenty  of  the  strong-minded,  plenty 
of  vicious  old  maids,  and  fanatics,  and  frumps.  But  I 
haven't  the  least  idea  what  she  accomplished — what  they 
call  "  wonders,"  I  suppose.' 

'Didn't  you  see  her  when  she  returned?'  Basil  Ransom 
asked. 

How  could  I  see  her?  I  can  see  pretty  far,  but  I 
can't  see  all  the  way  to  Boston.'  And  then,  in  explaining 
that  it  was  at  this  port  that  her  sister  had  disembarked, 
Mrs.  Luna  further  inquired  whether  he  could  imagine  Olive 
doing  anything  in  a  first-rate  way,  as  long  as  there  were 
inferior  ones.  'Of  course  she  likes  bad  ships — Boston 
steamers — just  as  she  likes  common  people,  and  red-haired 
hoydens,  and  preposterous  doctrines.' 

Ransom  was  silent  a  moment.  '  Do  you  mean  the — a 
— rather  striking  young  lady  whom  I  met  in  Boston  a  year 
ago  last  October  ?  What  was  her  name  ? — Miss  Tarrant  ? 
Does  Miss  Chancellor  like  her  as  much  as  ever?' 

'  Mercy  !  don't  you  know  she  took  her  to  Europe  ?  It 
was  to  form  her  mind  she  went.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
last  summer?  You  used  to  come  to  see  me  then.' 

'Oh  yes,  I  remember,'  Ransom  said,  rather  musingly. 
'And  did  she  bring  her  back?' 

'  Gracious,  you  don't  suppose  she  would  leave  her ! 
Olive  thinks  she's  born  to  regenerate  the  world.' 

'  I  remember  you  telling  me  that,  too.  It  comes  back 
to  me.  Well,  is  her  mind  formed?' 

'  As  I  haven't  seen  it,  I  cannot  tell  you.' 

'  Aren't  you  going  on  there  to  see ' 

'  To  see  whether  Miss  Tarrant's  mind  is  formed  ?'  Mrs. 


200  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

Luna  broke  in.  '  I  will  go  if  you  would  like  me  to.  I 
remember  your  being  immensely  excited  about  her  that 
time  you  met  her.  Don't  you  recollect  that?' 

Ransom  hesitated  an  instant.  '  I  can't  say  I  do.  It  is 
too  long  ago.' 

'Yes,  I  have  no  doubt  that's  the  way  you  change,  about 
women !  Poor  Miss  Tarrant,  if  she  thinks  she  made  an 
impression  on  you  !' 

1  She  won't  think  about  such  things  as  that,  if  her  mind 
has  been  formed  by  your  sister,'  Ransom  said.  '  It  does 
come  back  to  me  now,  what  you  told  me  about  the  growth 
of  their  intimacy.  And  do  they  mean  to  go  on  living  to- 
gether for  ever?' 

'  I  suppose  so — unless  some  one  should  take  it  into  his 
head  to  marry  Verena.' 

'Verena — is  that  her  name?'  Ransom  asked. 

Mrs.  Luna  looked  at  him  with  a  suspended  needle. 
'  Well !  have  you  forgotten  that  too  ?  You  told  me 
yourself  you  thought  it  so  pretty,  that  time  in  Boston, 
when  you  walked  me  up  the  hill.'  Ransom  declared  that 
he  remembered  that  walk,  but  didn't  remember  everything 
he  had  said  to  her ;  and  she  suggested,  very  satirically,  that 
perhaps  he  would  like  to  marry  Verena  himself — he  seemed 
so  interested  in  her.  Ransom  shook  his  head  sadly,  and 
said  he  was  afraid  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  marry; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Luna  asked  him  what  he  meant — did  he 
mean  (after  a  moment's  hesitation)  that  he  was  too  poor  ? 

'Never  in  the  world — I  am  very  rich;  I  make  an 
enormous  income!'  the  young  man  exclaimed;  so  that, 
remarking  his  tone,  and  the  slight  flush  of  annoyance  that 
rose  to  his  face,  Mrs.  Luna  was  quick  enough  to  judge  that 
she  had  overstepped  the  mark.  She  remembered  (she 
ought  to  have  remembered  before),  that  he  had  never  taken 
her  in  the  least  into  his  confidence  about  his  affairs.  That 
was  not  the  Southern  way,  and  he  was  at  least  as  proud  as 
he  was  poor.  In  this  surmise  she  was  just ;  Basil  Ransom 
would  have  despised  himself  if  he  had  been  capable  of 
confessing  to  a  woman  that  he  couldn't  make  a  living. 
Such  questions  were  none  of  their  business  (their  business 
was  simply  to  be  provided  for,  practise  the  domestic  virtues, 


xxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  201 

and  be  charmingly  grateful),  and  there  was,  to  his  sense, 
something  almost  indecent  in  talking  about  them.  Mrs. 
Luna  felt  doubly  sorry  for  him  as  she  perceived  that  he 
denied  himself  the  luxury  of  sympathy  (that  is,  of  hers), 
and  the  vague  but  comprehensive  sigh  that  passed  her  lips 
as  she  took  up  her  crochet  again  was  unusually  expressive 
of  helplessness.  She  said  that  of  course  she  knew  how 
great  his  talents  were — he  could  do  anything  he  wanted ; 
and  Basil  Ransom  wondered  for  a  moment  whether,  if  she 
were  to  ask  him  point-blank  to  marry  her,  it  would  be  con- 
sistent with  the  high  courtesy  of  a  Southern  gentleman  to 
refuse.  After  she  should  be  his  wife  he  might  of  course 
confess  to  her  that  he  was  too  poor  to  marry,  for  in  that 
relation  even  a  Southern  gentleman  of  the  highest  tone 
must  sometimes  unbend.  But  he  didn't  in  the  least  long 
for  this  arrangement,  and  was  conscious  that  the  most 
pertinent  sequel  to  her  conjecture  would  be  for  him  to  take 
up  his  hat  and  walk  away. 

Within  five  minutes,  however,  he  had  come  to  desire  to 
do  this  almost  as  little  as  to  marry  Mrs.  Luna.  He  wanted 
to  hear  more  about  the  girl  who  lived  with  Olive  Chancel- 
lor. Something  had  revived  in  him — an  old  curiosity,  an 
image  half  effaced — when  he  learned  that  she  had  come 
back  to  America.  He  had  taken  a  wrong  impression  from 
what  Mrs.  Luna  said,  nearly  a  year  before,  about  her 
sister's  visit  to  Europe ;  he  had  supposed  it  was  to  be  a 
long  absence,  that  Miss  Chancellor  wanted  perhaps  to  get 
the  little  prophetess  away  from  her  parents,  possibly  even 
away  from  some  amorous  entanglement.  Then,  no  doubt, 
they  wanted  to  study  up  the  woman-question  with  the  facili- 
ties that  Europe  would  offer ;  he  didn't  know  much  about 
Europe,  but  he  had  an  idea  that  it  was  a  great  place  for 
facilities.  His  knowledge  of  Miss  Chancellor's  departure, 
accompanied  by  her  young  companion,  had  checked  at  the 
time,  on  Ransom's  part,  a  certain  habit  of  idle  but  none  the 
less  entertaining  retrospect.  His  life,  on  the  whole,  had 
not  been  rich  in  episode,  and  that  little  chapter  of  his  visit 
to  his  queer,  clever,  capricious  cousin,  with  his  evening  at 
Miss  Birdseye's,  and  his  glimpse,  repeated  on  the  morrow, 
of  the  strange,  beautiful,  ridiculous,  red-haired  young 


202  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

improvisatrice,  unrolled  itself  in  his  memory  like  a  page  of 
interesting  fiction.  The  page  seemed  to  fade,  however, 
when  he  heard  that  the  two  girls  had  gone,  for  an  indefinite 
time,  to  unknown  lands ;  this  carried  them  out  of  his  range, 
spoiled  the  perspective,  diminished  their  actuality ;  so  that 
for  several  months  past,  with  his  increase  of  anxiety  about 
his  own  affairs,  and  the  low  pitch  of  his  spirits,  he  had  not 
thought  at  all  about  Verena  Tarrant.  The  fact  that  she 
was  once  more  in  Boston,  with  a  certain  contiguity  that  it 
seemed  to  imply  between  Boston  and  New  York,  presented 
itself  now  as  important  and  agreeable.  He  was  conscious 
that  this  was  rather  an  anomaly,  and  his  consciousness 
made  him,  had  already  made  him,  dissimulate  slightly.  He 
did  not  pick  up  his  hat  to  go ;  he  sat  in  his  chair  taking 
his  chance  of  the  tax  which  Mrs.  Luna  might  lay  upon  his 
urbanity.  He  remembered  that  he  had  not  made,  as  yet, 
any  very  eager  inquiry  about  Newton,  who  at  this  late  hour 
had  succumbed  to  the  only  influence  that  tames  the  un- 
tamable and  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  childhood,  if  not  of 
innocence.  Ransom  repaired  his  neglect  in  a  manner  which 
elicited  the  most  copious  response  from  his  hostess.  The 
boy  had  had  a  good  many  tutors  since  Ransom  gave  him 
up,  and  it  could  not  be  said  that  his  education  languished. 
Mrs.  Luna  spoke  with  pride  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
went  through  them ;  if  he  did  not  master  his  lessons,  he 
mastered  his  teachers,  and  she  had  the  happy  conviction 
that  she  gave  him  every  advantage.  Ransom's  delay  was 
diplomatic,  but  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he  returned  to 
the  young  ladies  in  Boston;  he  asked  why,  with  their 
aggressive  programme,  one  hadn't  begun  to  feel  their  onset, 
why  the  echoes  of  Miss  Tarrant's  eloquence  hadn't  reached 
his  ears.  Hadn't  she  come  out  yet  in  public  ?  was  she  not 
coming  to  stir  them  up  in  New  York?  He  hoped  she 
hadn't  broken  down. 

'She  didn't  seem  to  break  down  last  summer,  at  the 
Female  Convention,'  Mrs.  Luna  replied.  '  Have  you  for- 
gotten that  too?  Didn't  I  tell  you  of  the  sensation  she 
produced  there,  and  of  what  I  heard  from  Boston  about 
it?  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  didn't  give  you  that  'Transcript,' 
with  the  report  of  her  great  speech  ?  It  was  just  before 


xxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  203 

they  sailed  for  Europe ;  she  went  off  with  flying  colours,  in 
a  blaze  of  fireworks.'  Ransom  protested  that  he  had  not 
heard  this  affair  mentioned  till  that  moment,  and  then, 
when  they  compared  dates,  they  found  it  had  taken  place 
just  after  his  last  visit  to  Mrs.  Luna.  This,  of  course,  gave 
her  a  chance  to  say  that  he  had  treated  her  even  worse 
than  she  supposed ;  it  had  been  her  impression,  at  any  rate, 
that  they  had  talked  together  about  Verena's  sudden  bound 
into  fame.  Apparently  she  confounded  him  with  some  one 
else,  that  was  very  possible ;  he  was  not  to  suppose  that  he 
occupied  such  a  distinct  place  in  her  mind,  especially  when 
she  might  die  twenty  deaths  before  he  came  near  her. 
Ransom  demurred  to  the  implication  that  Miss  Tarrant  was 
famous ;  if  she  were  famous,  wouldn't  she  be  in  the  New 
York  papers  ?  He  hadn't  seen  her  there,  and  he  had  no 
recollection  of  having  encountered  any  mention  at  the  time 
(last  June,  was  it  ?)  of  her  exploits  at  the  Female  Conven- 
tion. A  local  reputation  doubtless  she  had,  but  that  had 
been  the  case  a  year  and  a  half  before,  and  what  was 
expected  of  her  then  was  to  become  a  first-class  national 
glory.  He  was  willing  to  believe  that  she  had  created  some 
excitement  in  Boston,  but  he  shouldn't  attach  much  im- 
portance to  that  till  one  began  to  see  her  photograph  in  the 
stores.  Of  course,  one  must  give  her  time,  but  he  had 
supposed  Miss  Chancellor  was  going  to  put  her  through 
faster. 

If  he  had  taken  a  contradictious  tone  on  purpose  to 
draw  Mrs.  Luna  out,  he  could  not  have  elicited  more  of  the 
information  he  desired.  It  was  perfectly  true  that  he  had 
seen  no  reference  to  Verena's  performances  in  the  preceding 
June ;  there  were  periods  when  the  newspapers  seemed  to 
him  so  idiotic  that  for  weeks  he  never  looked  at  one.  He 
learned  from  Mrs.  Luna  that  it  was  not  Olive  who  had  sent 
her  the  '  Transcript '  and  in  letters  had  added  some  private 
account  of  the  doings  at  the  convention  to  the  testimony  of 
that  amiable  sheet ;  she  had  been  indebted  for  this  service 
to  a  'gentleman -friend,'  who  wrote  her  everything  that 
happened  in  Boston,  and  what  every  one  had  every  day  for 
dinner.  Not  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  happiness  to 
know ;  but  the  gentleman  she  spoke  of  didn't  know  what 


204  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

to  invent  to  please  her.  A  Bostonian  couldn't  imagine 
that  one  didn't  want  to  know,  and  that  was  their  idea  of 
ingratiating  themselves,  or,  at  any  rate,  it  was  his,  poor 
man.  Olive  would  never  have  gone  into  particulars  about 
Verena ;  she  regarded  her  sister  as  quite  too  much  one  of 
the  profane,  and  knew  Adeline  couldn't  understand  why, 
when  she  took  to  herself  a  bosom-friend,  she  should  have 
been  at  such  pains  to  select  her  in  just  the  most  dreadful 
class  in  the  community.  Verena  was  a  perfect  little 
adventuress,  and  quite  third-rate  into  the  bargain ;  but,  of 
course,  she  was  a  pretty  girl  enough,  if  one  cared  for  hair 
of  the  colour  of  cochineal.  As  for  her  people,  they  were 
too  absolutely  awful ;  it  was  exactly  as  if  she,  Mrs.  Luna, 
had  struck  up  an  intimacy  with  the  daughter  of  her  chiro- 
podist. It  took  Olive  to  invent  such  monstrosities,  and  to 
think  she  was  doing  something  great  for  humanity  when  she 
did  so ;  though,  in  spite  of  her  wanting  to  turn  everything 
over,  and  put  the  lowest  highest,  she  could  be  just  as  con- 
temptuous and  invidious,  when  it  came  to  really  mixing,  as 
if  she  were  some  grand  old  duchess.  She  must  do  her  the 
justice  to  say  that  she  hated  the  Tarrants,  the  father  and 
mother ;  but,  all  the  same,  she  let  Verena  run  to  and  fro 
between  Charles  Street  and  the  horrible  hole  they  lived  in, 
and  Adeline  knew  from  that  gentleman  who  wrote  so 
copiously  that  the  girl  now  and  then  spent  a  week  at  a 
time  at  Cambridge.  Her  mother,  who  had  been  ill  for 
some  weeks,  wanted  her  to  sleep  there.  Mrs.  Luna  knew 
further,  by  her  correspondent,  that  Verena  had — or  had  had 
the  winter  before — a  great  deal  of  attention  from  gentlemen. 
She  didn't  know  how  she  worked  that  into  the  idea  that 
the  female  sex  was  sufficient  to  itself;  but  she  had  grounds 
for  saying  that  this  was  one  reason  why  Olive  had  taken 
her  abroad.  She  was  afraid  Verena  would  give  in  to  some 
man,  and  she  wanted  to  make  a  break.  Of  course,  any 
such  giving  in  would  be  very  awkward  for  a  young  woman 
who  shrieked  out  on  platforms  that  old  maids  were  the 
highest  type.  Adeline  guessed  Olive  had  perfect  control  of 
her  now,  unless  indeed  she  used  the  expeditions  to  Cam- 
bridge as  a  cover  for  meeting  gentlemen.  She  was  an  artful 
little  minx,  and  cared  as  much  for  the  rights  of  women  as 


xxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  205 

she  did  for  the  Panama  Canal  j  the  only  right  of  a  woman 
she  wanted  was  to  climb  up  on  top  of  something,  where 
the  men  could  look  at  her.  She  would  stay  with  Olive  as 
long  as  it  served  her  purpose,  because  Olive,  with  her  great 
respectability,  could  push  her,  and  counteract  the  effect  of 
her  low  relations,  to  say  nothing  of  paying  all  her  expenses 
and  taking  her  the  tour  of  Europe.  '  But,  mark  my  words,' 
said  Mrs.  Luna,  'she  will  give  Olive  the  greatest  cut  she 
has  ever  had  in  her  life.  She  will  run  off  with  some  lion- 
tamer;  she  will  marry  a  circus-man!'  And  Mrs.  Luna 
added  that  it  would  serve  Olive  Chancellor  right.  But  she 
would  take  it  hard ;  look  out  for  tantrums  then  ! 

Basil  Ransom's  emotions  were  peculiar  while  his  hostess 
delivered  herself,  in  a  manner  at  once  casual  and  emphatic, 
of  these  rather  insidious  remarks.  He  took  them  all  in, 
for  they  represented  to  him  certain  very  interesting  facts ; 
but  he  perceived  at  the  same  time  that  Mrs.  Luna  didn't 
know  what  she  was  talking  about.  He  had  seen  Verena 
Tarrant  only  twice  in  his  life,  but  it  was  no  use  telling  him 
that  she  was  an  adventuress — though,  certainly,  it  was 
very  likely  she  would  end  by  giving  Miss  Chancellor  a  cut. 
He  chuckled,  with  a  certain  grimness,  as  this  image  passed 
before  him ;  it  was  not  unpleasing,  the  idea  that  he  should 
be  avenged  (for  it  would  avenge  him  to  know  it),  upon  the 
wanton  young  woman  who  had  invited  him  to  come  and 
see  her  in  order  simply  to  slap  his  face.  But  he  had  an 
odd  sense  of  having  lost  something  in  not  knowing  of  the 
other  girl's  appearance  at  the  Women's  Convention — a 
vague  feeling  that  he  had  been  cheated  and  trifled  with. 
The  complaint  was  idle,  inasmuch  as  it  was  not  probable 
he  could  have  gone  to  Boston  to  listen  to  her ;  but  it 
represented  to  him  that  he  had  not  shared,  even  dimly  and 
remotely,  in  an  event  which  concerned  her  very  closely. 
Why  should  he  share,  and  what  was  more  natural  than  that 
the  things  which  concerned  her  closely  should  not  concern 
him  at  all  ?  This  question  came  to  him  only  as  he  walked 
home  that  evening ;  for  the  moment  it  remained  quite  in 
abeyance :  therefore  he  was  free  to  feel  also  that  his 
imagination  had  been  rather  starved  by  his  ignorance  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  near  him  again  (comparatively),  that 


206  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

she  was  in  the  dimness  of  the  horizon  (no  longer  beyond 
the  curve  of  the  globe),  and  yet  he  had  not  perceived  it. 
This  sense  of  personal  loss,  as  I  have  called  it,  made  him 
feel,  further,  that  he  had  something  to  make  up,  to  recover. 
He  could  scarcely  have  told  you  how  he  would  go  about 
it;  but  the  idea,  formless  though  it  was,  led  him  in  a 
direction  very  different  from  the  one  he  had  been  following 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before.  As  he  watched  it  dance  before 
him  he  fell  into  another  silence,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Mrs.  Luna  gave  him  another  mystic  smile.  The  effect  of 
it  was  to  make  him  rise  to  his  feet ;  the  whole  landscape 
of  his  mind  had  suddenly  been  illuminated.  Decidedly, 
it  was  not  his  duty  to  marry  Mrs.  Luna,  in  order  to  have 
means  to  pursue  his  studies ;  he  jerked  himself  back,  as  if 
he  had  been  on  the  point  of  it. 

'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going  already?  I 
haven't  said  half  I  wanted  to  ! '  she  exclaimed. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock,  saw  it  was  not  yet  late,  took 
a  turn  about  the  room,  then  sat  down  again  in  a  different 
place,  while  she  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  wondering 
what  was  the  matter  with  him.  Ransom  took  good  care 
not  to  ask  her  what  it  was  she  had  still  to  say,  and  perhaps 
it  was  to  prevent  her  telling  him  that  he  now  began  to 
talk,  freely,  quickly,  in  quite  a  new  tone.  He  stayed  half 
an  hour  longer,  and  made  himself  very  agreeable.  It 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Luna  now  that  he  had  every  distinction 
(she  had  known  he  had  most),  that  he  was  really  a  charming 
man.  He  abounded  in  conversation,  till  at  last  he  took 
up  his  hat  in  earnest;  he  talked  about  the  state  of  the 
South,  its  social  peculiarities,  the  ruin  wrought  by  the  war, 
the  dilapidated  gentry,  the  queer  types  of  superannuated 
fire-eaters,  ragged  and  unreconciled,  all  the  pathos  and  all 
the  comedy  of  it,  making  her  laugh  at  one  moment,  almost 
cry  at  another,  and  say  to  herself  throughout  that  when  he 
took  it  into  his  head  there  was  no  one  who  could  make  a 
lady's  evening  pass  so  pleasantly.  It  was  only  afterwards  that 
she  asked  herself  why  he  had  not  taken  it  into  his  head 
till  the  last,  so  quickly.  She  delighted  in  the  dilapidated 
gentry ;  her  taste  was  completely  different  from  her  sister's, 
who  took  an  interest  only  in  the  lower  class,  as  it  struggled 


xxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  207 

to  rise ;  what  Adeline  cared  for  was  the  fallen  aristocracy 
(it  seemed  to  be  falling  everywhere  very  much;  was  not 
Basil  Ransom  an  example  of  it  ?  was  he  not  like  a  French 
gentilhomme  de  province  after  the  Revolution  ?  or  an  old 
monarchical  emigre  from  the  Languedoc?),  the  despoiled 
patriciate,  I  say,  whose  attitude  was  noble  and  touching, 
and  toward  whom  one  might  exercise  a  charity  as  discreet 
as  their  pride  was  sensitive.  In  all  Mrs.  Luna's  visions 
of  herself,  her  discretion  was  the  leading  feature.  '  Are 
you  going  to  let  ten  years  elapse  again  before  you  come  ? ' 
she  asked,  as  Basil  Ransom  bade  her  good-night.  '  You 
must  let  me  know,  because  between  this  and  your  next  visit 
I  shall  have  time  to  go  to  Europe  and  come  back.  I  shall 
take  care  to  arrive  the  day  before.' 

Instead  of  answering  this  sally,  Ransom  said,  '  Are  you 
not  going  one  of  these  days  to  Boston?  Are  you  not 
going  to  pay  your  sister  another  visit  ?' 

Mrs.  Luna  stared.  '  What  good  will  that  do  you  ? 
Excuse  my  stupidity,'  she  added ;  '  of  course,  it  gets  me 
away.  Thank  you  very  much  !' 

*  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away ;  but  I  want  to  hear  more 
about  Miss  Olive.' 

'  Why  in  the  world  ?  You  know  you  loathe  her ! ' 
Here,  before  Ransom  could  reply,  Mrs.  Luna  again  over- 
took herself.  '  I  verily  believe  that  by  Miss  Olive  you 
mean  Miss  Verena!'  Her  eyes  charged  him  a  moment 
with  this  perverse  intention;  then  she  exclaimed,  'Basil 
Ransom,  are  you  in  love  with  that  creature?' 

He  gave  a  perfectly  natural  laugh,  not  pleading  guilty, 
in  order  to  practise  on  Mrs.  Luna,  but  expressing  the 
simple  state  of  the  case.  'How  should  I  be?  I  have 
seen  her  but  twice  in  my  life.' 

'  If  you  had  seen  her  more,  I  shouldn't  be  afraid ! 
Fancy  your  wanting  to  pack  me  off  to  Boston ! '  his  hostess 
went  on.  '  I  am  in  no  hurry  to  stay  with  Olive  again ; 
besides,  that  girl  takes  up  the  whole  house.  You  had 
better  go  there  yourself.' 

'  I  should  like  nothing  better,'  said  Ransom. 

'  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  ask  Verena  to  spend  a 
month  with  me — it  might  be  a  way  of  attracting  you 


208  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxn. 

to  the  house,'  Adeline  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  exuberant 
provocation. 

Ransom  was  on  the  point  of  replying  that  it  would  be  a 
better  way  than  any  other,  but  he  checked  himself  in  time ; 
he  had  never  yet,  even  in  joke,  made  so  crude,  so  rude  a 
speech  to  a  lady.  You  only  knew  when  he  was  joking 
with  women  by  his  superadded  civility.  'I  beg  you  to 
believe  there  is  nothing  I  would  do  for  any  woman  in  the 
world  that  I  wouldn't  do  for  you,'  he  said,  bending,  for  the 
last  time,  over  Mrs.  Luna's  plump  hand. 

'I  shall  remember  that  and  keep  you  up  to  it!'  she 
cried  after  him,  as  he  went.  But  even  with  this  rather 
lively  exchange  of  vows  he  felt  that  he  had  got  off  rather 
easily.  He  walked  slowly  up  Fifth  Avenue,  into  which, 
out  of  Adeline's  cross-street,  he  had  turned,  by  the  light  of 
a  fine  winter  moon;  and  at  every  corner  he  stopped  a 
minute,  lingered  in  meditation,  while  he  exhaled  a  soft, 
vague  sigh.  This  was  an  unconscious,  involuntary  expres- 
sion of  relief,  such  as  a  man  might  utter  who  had  seen 
himself  on  the  point  of  being  run  over  and  yet  felt  that  he 
was  whole.  He  didn't  trouble  himself  much  to  ask  what 
had  saved  him ;  whatever  it  was  it  had  produced  a  reaction, 
so  that  he  felt  rather  ashamed  of  having  found  his  look-out 
of  late  so  blank.  By  the  time  he  reached  his  lodgings,  his 
ambition,  his  resolution,  had  rekindled;  he  had  remembered 
that  he  formerly  supposed  he  was  a  man  of  ability,  that 
nothing  particular  had  occurred  to  make  him  doubt  it  (the 
evidence  was  only  negative,  not  positive),  and  that  at  any 
rate  he  was  young  enough  to  have  another  try.  He 
whistled  that  night  as  he  went  to  bed. 


XXIII. 

THREE  weeks  afterward  he  stood  in  front  of  Olive 
Chancellor's  house,  looking  up  and  down  the  street  and 
hesitating.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Luna  that  he  should  like 
nothing  better  than  to  make  another  journey  to  Boston ; 
and  it  was  not  simply  because  he  liked  it  that  he  had  come. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  a  happy  chance  had 
favoured  him,  but  it  occurs  to  me  that  one  is  under  no 
obligation  to  call  chances  by  flattering  epithets  when  they 
have  been  waited  for  so  long.  At  any  rate,  the  darkest 
hour  is  before  the  dawn ;  and  a  few  days  after  that  melan- 
choly evening  I  have  described,  which  Ransom  spent  in 
his  German  beer-cellar,  before  a  single  glass,  soon  emptied, 
staring  at  his  future  with  an  unremunerated  eye,  he  found 
that  the  world  appeared  to  have  need  of  him  yet.  The 
1  party/  as  he  would  have  said  (I  cannot  pretend  that  his 
speech  was  too  heroic  for  that),  for  whom  he  had  transacted 
business  in  Boston  so  many  months  before,  and  who  had 
expressed  at  the  time  but  a  limited  appreciation  of  his 
services  (there  had  been  between  the  lawyer  and  his  client 
a  divergence  of  judgment),  observing,  apparently,  that  they 
proved  more  fruitful  than  he  expected,  had  reopened  the 
affair  and  presently  requested  Ransom  to  transport  himself 
again  to  the  sister  city.  His  errand  demanded  more  time 
than  before,  and  for  three  days  he  gave  it  his  constant 
attention.  On  the  fourth  he  found  he  was  still  detained  >, 
he  should  have  to  wait  till  the  evening — some  important 
papers  were  to  be  prepared.  He  determined  to  treat  the 
interval  as  a  holiday,  and  he  wondered  what  one  could  do  in 
Boston  to  give  one's  morning  a  festive  complexion.  The 
weather  was  brilliant  enough  to  minister  to  any  illusion, 
and  he  strolled  along  the  streets,  taking  it  in.  In  front  of 


210  THE  BOSTONIANS^  xxm. 

the  Music  Hall  and  of  Tremont  Temple  he  stopped,  look- 
ing at  the  posters  in  the  doorway ;  for  was  it  not  possible 
that  Miss  Chancellor's  little  friend  might  be  just  then 
addressing  her  fellow-citizens?  Her  name  was  absent, 
however,  and  this  resource  seemed  to  mock  him.  He 
knew  no  one  in  the  place  but  Olive  Chancellor,  so  there 
was  no  question  of  a  visit  to  pay.  He  was  perfectly  re- 
solved that  he  would  never  go  near  her  again ;  she  was 
doubtless  a  very  superior  being,  but  she  had  been  too 
rough  with  him  to  tempt  him  further.  Politeness,  even  a 
largely-interpreted  'chivalry,'  required  nothing  more  than 
he  had  already  done ;  he  had  quitted  her,  the  other  year, 
without  telling  her  that  she  was  a  vixen,  and  that  reticence 
was  chivalrous  enough.  There  was  also  Verena  Tarrant, 
of  course ;  he  saw  no  reason  to  dissemble  when  he  spoke 
of  her  to  himself,  and  he  allowed  himself  the  entertainment 
of  feeling  that  he  should  like  very  much  to  see  her  again. 
Very  likely  she  wouldn't  seem  to  him  the  same;  the 
impression  she  had  made  upon  him  was  due  to  some  acci- 
dent of  mood  or  circumstance ;  and,  at  any  rate,  any  charm 
she  might  have  exhibited  then  had  probably  been  obliter- 
ated by  the  coarsening  effect  of  publicity  and  the  tonic 
influence  of  his  kinswoman.  It  will  be  observed  that  in 
this  reasoning  of  Basil  Ransom's  the  impression  was  freely 
recognised,  and  recognised  as  a  phenomenon  still  present. 
The  attraction  might  have  vanished,  as  he  said  to  himself, 
but  the  mental  picture  of  it  was  yet  vivid.  The  greater 
the  pity  that  he  couldn't  call  upon  Verena  (he  called  her 
by  her  name  in  his  thoughts,  it  was  so  pretty),  without  calling 
upon  Olive,  and  that  Olive  was  so  disagreeable  as  to  place 
that  effort  beyond  his  strength.  There  was  another  consider- 
ation, with  Ransom,  which  eminently  belonged  to  the  man; 
he  believed  that  Miss  Chancellor  had  conceived,  in  the 
course  of  those  few  hours,  and  in  a  manner  that  formed  so 
absurd  a  sequel  to  her  having  gone  out  of  her  way  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  such  a  dislike  to  him  that  it  would  be 
odious  to  her  to  see  him  again  within  her  doors ;  and  he 
would  have  felt  indelicate  in  taking  warrant  from  her  original 
invitation  (before  she  had  seen  him),  to  inflict  on  her  a 
presence  which  he  had  no  reason  to  suppose  the  lapse  of 


XXIIT.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  211 

time  had  made  less  offensive.  She  had  given  him  no 
sign  of  pardon  or  penitence  in  any  of  the  little  ways  that 
are  familiar  to  women — by  sending  him  a  message  through 
her  sister,  or  even  a  book,  a  photograph,  a  Christmas  card, 
or  a  newspaper,  by  the  post.  He  felt,  in  a  word,  not  at 
liberty  to  ring  at  her  door ;  he  didn't  know  what  kind  of  a 
fit  the  sight  of  his  long  Mississippian  person  would  give 
her,  and  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  should  wish  so 
to  spare  the  sensibilities  of  a  young  lady  whom  he  had  not 
found  tender ;  being  ever  as  willing  to  let  women  off  easily 
in  the  particular  case  as  he  was  fixed  in  the  belief  that  the 
sex  in  general  requires  watching. 

Nevertheless,  he  found  himself,  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour,  standing  on  the  only  spot  in  Charles  Street  which  had 
any  significance  for  him.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  if  he 
couldn't  call  upon  Verena  without  calling  upon  Olive,  he 
should  be  exempt  from  that  condition  if  he  called  upon 
Mrs.  Tarrant.  It  was  not  her  mother,  truly,  who  had  asked 
him,  it  was  the  girl  herself;  and  he  was  conscious,  as  a 
candid  young  American,  that  a  mother  is  always  less  ac- 
cessible, more  guarded  by  social  prejudice,  than  a  daughter. 
But  he  was  at  a  pass  in  which  it  was  permissible  to  strain 
a  point,  and  he  took  his  way  in  the  direction  in  which  he 
knew  that  Cambridge  lay,  remembering  that  Miss  Tarrant's 
invitation  had  reference  to  that  quarter  and  that  Mrs.  Luna 
had  given  him  further  evidence.  Had  she  not  said  that 
Verena  often  went  back  there  for  visits  of  several  days — 
that  her  mother  had  been  ill  and  she  gave  her  much  care  ? 
There  was  nothing  inconceivable  in  her  being  engaged  at 
that  hour  (it  was  getting  to  be  one  o'clock),  in  one  of  those 
expeditions — nothing  impossible  in  the  chance  that  he 
might  find  her  in  Cambridge.  The  chance,  at  any  rate, 
was  worth  taking  ;  Cambridge,  moreover,  was  worth  seeing, 
and  it  was  as  good  a  way  as  another  of  keeping  his  holiday. 
It  occurred  to  him,  indeed,  that  Cambridge  was  a  big  place, 
and  that  he  had  no  particular  address.  This  reflection 
overtook  him  just  as  he  reached  Olive's  house,  which,  oddly 
enough,  he  was  obliged  to  pass  on  his  way  to  the  mysterious 
suburb.  That  is  partly  why  he  paused  there;  he  asked 
himself  for  a  moment  why  he  shouldn't  ring  the  bell  and 


212  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxm. 

obtain  his  needed  information  from  the  servant,  who  would 
be  sure  to  be  able  to  give  it  to  him.  He  had  just  dismissed 
this  method,  as  of  questionable  taste,  when  he  heard  the 
door  of  the  house  open,  within  the  deep  embrasure  in  which, 
in  Charles  Street,  the  main  portals  are  set,  and  which  are 
partly  occupied  by  a  flight  of  steps  protected  at  the  bottom 
by  a  second  door,  whose  upper  half,  in  either  wing,  consists 
of  a  sheet  of  glass.  It  was  a  minute  before  he  could  see 
who  had  come  out,  and  in  that  minute  he  had  time  to  turn 
away  and  then  to  turn  back  again,  and  to  wonder  which  of 
the  two  inmates  would  appear  to  him,  or  whether  he  should 
behold  neither  or  both. 

The  person  who  had  issued  from  the  house  descended 
the  steps  very  slowly,  as  if  on  purpose  to  give  him  time  to 
escape ;  and  when  at  last  the  glass  doors  were  divided  they 
disclosed  a  little  old  lady.  Ransom  was  disappointed; 
such  an  apparition  was  so  scantily  to  his  purpose.  But  the 
next  minute  his  spirits  rose  again,  for  he  was  sure  that  he 
had  seen  the  little  old  lady  before.  She  stopped  on  the 
side-walk,  and  looked  vaguely  about  her,  in  the  manner  of 
a  person  waiting  for  an  omnibus  or  a  street-car ;  she  had  a 
dingy,  loosely-habited  air,  as  if  she  had  worn  her  clothes 
for  many  years  and  yet  was  even  now  imperfectly  acquainted 
with  them ;  a  large,  benignant  face,  caged  in  by  the  glass 
of  her  spectacles,  which  seemed  to  cover  it  almost  equally 
everywhere,  and  a  fat,  rusty  satchel,  which  hung  low  at  her 
side,  as  if  it  wearied  her  to  carry  it.  This  gave  Ransom 
time  to  recognise  her ;  he  knew  in  Boston  no  such  figure 
as  that  save  Miss  Birdseye.  Her  party,  her  person,  the 
exalted  account  Miss  Chancellor  gave  of  her,  had  kept  a 
very  distinct  place  in  his  mind ;  and  while  she  stood  there 
in  dim  circumspection  she  came  back  to  him  as  a  friend  of 
yesterday.  His  necessity  gave  a  point  to  the  reminiscences 
she  evoked ;  it  took  him  only  a  moment  to  reflect  that  she 
would  be  able  to  tell  him  where  Verena  Tarrant  was  at  that 
particular  time,  and  where,  if  need  be,  her  parents  lived. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  him,  and  as  she  saw  that  he  was  looking 
at  her  she  didn't  go  through  the  ceremony  (she  had  broken 
so  completely  with  all  conventions),  of  removing  them  ;  he 
evidently  represented  nothing  to  her  but  a  sentient  fellow- 


xxiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  213 

citizen  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  rights,  which  included  that 
of  staring.  Miss  Birdseye's  modesty  had  never  pretended 
that  it  was  not  to  be  publicly  challenged ;  there  were  so 
many  bright  new  motives  and  ideas  in  the  world  that  there 
might  even  be  reasons  for  looking  at  her.  When  Ransom 
approached  her  and,  raising  his  hat  with  a  smile,  said, 
'Shall  I  stop  this  car  for  you,  Miss  Birdseye?'  she  only 
looked  at  him  more  vaguely,  in  her  complete  failure  to 
seize  the  idea  that  this  might  be  simply  Fame.  She  had 
trudged  about  the  streets  of  Boston  for  fifty  years,  and  at 
no  period  had  she  received  that  amount  of  attention  from 
dark-eyed  young  men.  She  glanced,  in  an  unprejudiced 
way,  at  the  big  parti-coloured  human  van  which  now  jingled 
toward  them  from  out  of  the  Cambridge  road.  '  Well,  I 
should  like  to  get  into  it,  if  it  will  take  me  home,'  she 
answered.  *  Is  this  a  South  End  car?' 

The  vehicle  had  been  stopped  by  the  conductor,  on  his 
perceiving  Miss  Birdseye ;  he  evidently  recognised  her  as  a 
frequent  passenger.  He  went,  however,  through  none  of 
the  forms  of  reassurance  beyond  remarking,  *  You  want  to 
get  right  in  here — quick,'  but  stood  with  his  hand  raised,  in 
a  threatening  way,  to  the  cord  of  his  signal-bell. 

'  You  must  allow  me  the  honour  of  taking  you  home, 
madam ;  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am,'  Basil  Ransom  said,  in 
obedience  to  a  rapid  reflection.  He  helped  her  into  the 
car,  the  conductor  pressed  a  fraternal  hand  upon  her  back, 
and  in  a  moment  the  young  man  was  seated  beside  her, 
and  the  jingling  had  recommenced.  At  that  hour  of  the 
day  the  car  was  almost  empty,  and  they  had  it  virtually 
to  themselves. 

*  Well,  I  know  you  are  some  one ;  I  don't  think  you 
belong  round  here/  Miss  Birdseye  declared,  as  they  pro- 
ceeded. 

1 1  was  once  at  your  house — on  a  very  interesting 
occasion.  Do  you  remember  a  party  you  gave,  a  year  ago 
last  October,  to  which  Miss  Chancellor  came,  and  another 
young  lady,  who  made  a  wonderful  speech  ?' 

'  Oh  yes !  when  Verena  Tarrant  moved  us  all  so ! 
There  were  a  good  many  there ;  I  don't  remember  all.' 

'  I  was  one  of  them,'  Basil  Ransom  said ;  '  I  came  with 


214  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxm. 

Miss  Chancellor,  who  is  a  kind  of  relation  of  mine,  and  you 
were  very  good  to  me.' 

'What  did  I  do?'  asked  Miss  Birdseye,  candidly. 
Then,  before  he  could  answer  her,  she  recognised  him.  '  I 
remember  you  now,  and  Olive  bringing  you  !  You're  a 
Southern  gentleman — she  told  me  about  you  afterwards. 
You  don't  approve  of  our  great  struggle — you  want  us  to  be 
kept  down.'  The  old  lady  spoke  with  perfect  mildness,  as 
if  she  had  long  ago  done  with  passion  and  resentment. 
Then  she  added,  'Well,  I  presume  we  can't  have  the 
sympathy  of  all. 

'  Doesn't  it  look  as  if  you  had  my  sympathy,  when  I 
get  into  a  car  on  purpose  to  see  you  home — one  of  the 
principal  agitators?'  Ransom  inquired,  laughing. 

'Did  you  get  in  on  purpose?' 

'  Quite  on  purpose.  I  am  not  so  bad  as  Miss  Chancellor 
thinks  me.' 

'  Oh,  I  presume  you  have  your  ideas,'  said  Miss  Birds- 
eye.  '  Of  course,  Southerners  have  peculiar  views.  I 
suppose  they  retain  more  than  one  might  think.  I  hope 
you  won't  ride  too  far — I  know  my  way  round  Boston.' 

'  Don't  object  to  me,  or  think  me  officious,'  Ransom 
replied.  '  I  want  to  ask  you  something.' 

Miss  Birdseye  looked  at  him  again.  '  Oh  yes,  I  place 
you  now ;  you  conversed  some  with  Doctor  Prance.' 

'To  my  great  edification!'  Ransom  exclaimed.  'And 
I  hope  Doctor  Prance  is  well.' 

'She  looks  after  every  one's  health  but  her  own,'  said 
Miss  Birdseye,  smiling.  '  When  I  tell  her  that,  she  says  she 
hasn't  got  any  to  look  after.  She  says  she's  the  only 
woman  in  Boston  that  hasn't  got  a  doctor.  She  was 
determined  she  wouldn't  be  a  patient,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  only  way  not  to  be  one  was  to  be  a  doctor.  She  is 
trying  to  make  me  sleep ;  that's  her  principal  occupation.' 

'  Is  it  possible  you  don't  sleep  yet  ? '  Ransom  asked, 
almost  tenderly. 

'  Well,  just  a  little.  But  by  the  time  I  get  to  sleep  I 
have  to  get  up.  I  can't  sleep  when  I  want  to  live.' 

'You  ought  to  come  down  South,'  the  young  man 
suggested.  '  In  that  languid  air  you  would  doze  deliriously  !> 


xxiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  215 

'Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  languid,'  said  Miss  Birdseye. 
'  Besides,  I  have  been  down  South,  in  the  old  times,  and  1 
can't  say  they  let  me  sleep  very  much ;  they  were  always 
round  after  me  !' 

'  Do  you  mean  on  account  of  the  negroes  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else  then.  I  carried 
them  the  Bible.' 

Ransom  was  silent  a  moment ;  then  he  said,  in  a  tone 
which  evidently  was  carefully  considerate,  '  I  should  like  to 
hear  all  about  that !' 

'  Well,  fortunately,  we  are  not  required  now  j  we  are 
required  for  something  else.'  And  Miss  Birdseye  looked 
at  him  with  a  wandering,  tentative  humour,  as  if  he  would 
know  what  she  meant. 

'You  mean  for  the  other  slaves !'  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
laugh.  '  You  can  carry  them  all  the  Bibles  you  want.' 

'  I  want  to  carry  them  the  Statute-book  •  that  must  be 
our  Bible  now.' 

Ransom  found  himself  liking  Miss  Birdseye  very  much, 
and  it  was  quite  without  hypocrisy  or  a  tinge  too  much  of 
the  local  quality  in  his  speech  that  he  said  :  '  Wherever  you 
go,  madam,  it  will  matter  little  what  you  carry.  You  will 
always  carry  your  goodness.' 

For  a  minute  she  made  no  response.  Then  she 
murmured :  '  That's  the  way  Olive  Chancellor  told  me  you 
talked.' 

'  I  am  afraid  she  has  told  you  little  good  of  me.' 

'  Well,  I  am  sure  she  thinks  she  is  right.' 

'  Thinks  it  ?'  said  Ransom.  '  Why,  she  knows  it,  with 
supreme  certainty  !  By  the  way,  I  hope  she  is  well.' 

Miss  Birdseye  stared  again.  '  Haven't  you  seen  her  ? 
Are  you  not  visiting  ? ' 

'  Oh  no,  I  am  not  visiting !  I  was  literally  passing  her 
house  when  I  met  you.' 

'  Perhaps  you  live  here  now,'  said  Miss  Birdseye.  And 
when  he  had  corrected  this  impression,  she  added,  in  a 
tone  which  showed  with  what  positive  confidence  he  had 
now  inspired  her,  'Hadn't  you  better  drop  in?' 

'  It  would  give  Miss  Chancellor  no  pleasure,'  Basil  Ran- 
som rejoined.  'She  regards  me  as  an  enemy  in  the  camp.' 


216  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxm. 

'  Well,  she  is  very  brave.' 

'  Precisely.     And  I  am  very  timid.' 

'  Didn't  you  fight  once  ? ' 

'Yes;  but  it  was  in  such  a  good  cause  !' 

Ransom  meant  this  allusion  to  the  great  Secession  and, 
by  comparison,  to  the  attitude  of  the  resisting  male  (laudable 
even  as  that  might  be),  to  be  decently  jocular ;  but  Miss 
Birdseye  took  it  very  seriously,  and  sat  there  for  a  good 
while  as  speechless  as  if  she  meant  to  convey  that  she  had 
been  going  on  too  long  now  to  be  able  to  discuss  the 
propriety  of  the  late  rebellion.  The  young  man  felt  that 
he  had  silenced  her,  and  he  was  very  sorry ;  for,  with  all 
deference  to  the  disinterested  Southern  attitude  toward  the 
unprotected  female,  what  he  had  got  into  the  car  with  her 
for  was  precisely  to  make  her  talk.  He  had  wished  for 
general,  as  well  as  for  particular,  news  of  Verena  Tarrant ; 
it  was  a  topic  on  which  he  had  proposed  to  draw  Miss 
Birdseye  out.  He  preferred  not  to  broach  it  himself,  and 
he  waited  awhile  for  another  opening.  At  last,  when  he 
was  on  the  point  of  exposing  himself  by  a  direct  inquiry 
(he  reflected  that  the  exposure  would  in  any  case  not  be 
long  averted),  she  anticipated  him  by  saying,  in  a  manner 
which  showed  that  her  thoughts  had  continued  in  the  same 
train,  '  I  wonder  very  much  that  Miss  Tarrant  didn't  affect 
you  that  evening  !' 

'Ah,  but  she  did!'  Ransom  said,  with  alacrity.  'I 
thought  her  very  charming  ! ' 

'  Didn't  you  think  her  very  reasonable?' 

'  God  forbid,  madam !  I  consider  women  have  no 
business  to  be  reasonable.' 

His  companion  turned  upon  him,  slowly  and  mildly, 
and  each  of  her  glasses,  in  her  aspect  of  reproach,  had  the 
glitter  of  an  enormous  tear.  '  Do  you  regard  us,  then, 
simply  as  lovely  baubles  ? ' 

The  effect  of  this  question,  as  coming  from  Miss  Birds- 
eye,  and  referring  in  some  degree  to  her  own  venerable 
identity,  was  such  as  to  move  him  to  irresistible  laughter. 
But  he  controlled  himself  quickly  enough  to  say,  with 
genuine  expression,  '  I  regard  you  as  the  dearest  thing  in 
life,  the  only  thing  which  makes  it  worth  living  ! ' 


xxiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  217 

'Worth  living  for — you!  But  for  us?'  suggested  Miss 
Birdseye. 

'It's  worth  any  woman's  while  to  be  admired  as  I 
admire  you.  Miss  Tarrant,  of  whom  we  were  speaking, 
affected  me,  as  you  say,  in  this  way — that  I  think  more 
highly  still,  if  possible,  of  the  sex  which  produced  such  a 
delightful  young  lady.' 

'Well,  we  think  everything  of  her  here,'  said  Miss 
Birdseye.  '  It  seems  as  if  it  were  a  real  gift' 

'Does  she  speak  often — is  there  any  chance  of  my 
hearing  her  now?' 

'  She  raises  her  voice  a  good  deal  in  the  places  round — 
like  Framingham  and  Billerica.  It  seems  as  if  she  were 
gathering  strength,  just  to  break  over  Boston  like  a  wave. 
In  fact  she  did  break,  last  summer.  She  is  a  growing 
power  since  her  great  success  at  the  convention.' 

'Ah!  her  success  at  the  convention  was  very  great?' 
Ransom  inquired,  putting  discretion  into  his  voice. 

Miss  Birdseye  hesitated  a  moment,  in  order  to  measure 
her  response  by  the  bounds  of  righteousness.  '  Well,'  she 
said,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  long  retrospect,  '  I  have  seen 
nothing  like  it  since  I  last  listened  to  Eliza  P.  Moseley.' 

'What  a  pity  she  isn't  speaking  somewhere  to-night!' 
Ransom  exclaimed. 

'  Oh,  to-night  she's  out  in  Cambridge.  Olive  Chancellor 
mentioned  that.' 

'  Is  she  making  a  speech  there  ?' 

'  No ;  she's  visiting  her  home.' 

'I  thought  her  home  was  in  Charles  Street?' 

'  Well,  no ;  that's  her  residence — her  principal  one — 
since  she  became  so  united  to  your  cousin.  Isn't  Miss 
Chancellor  your  cousin?' 

'  We  don't  insist  on  the  relationship,'  said  Ransom,  smil- 
ing. 'Are  they  very  much  united,  the  two  young  ladies?' 

'  You  would  say  so  if  you  were  to  see  Miss  Chancellor 
when  Verena  rises  to  eloquence.  It's  as  if  the  chords  were 
strung  across  her  own  heart ;  she  seems  to  vibrate,  to  echo 
with  every  word.  It's  a  very  close  and  very  beautiful  tie, 
and  we  think  everything  of  it  here.  They  will  work 
together  for  a  great  good !' 


218  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxm. 

*  I  hope  so,'  Ransom  remarked.  '  But  in  spite  of  it 
Miss  Tarrant  spends  a  part  of  her  time  with  her  father  and 
mother.' 

'  Yes,  she  seems  to  have  something  for  every  one.  If 
you  were  to  see  her  at  home,  you  would  think  she  was 
all  the  daughter.  She  leads  a  lovely  life !'  said  Miss 
Birdseye. 

'  See  her  at  home  ?  That's  exactly  what  I  want ! ' 
Ransom  rejoined,  feeling  that  if  he  was  to  come  to  this  he 
needn't  have  had  scruples  at  first.  'I  haven't  forgotten 
that  she  invited  me,  when  I  met  her.' 

( Oh,  of  course  she  attracts  many  visitors,'  said  Miss 
Birdseye,  limiting  her  encouragement  to  this  statement. 

'  Yes ;  she  must  be  used  to  admirers.  And  where,  in 
Cambridge,  do  her  family  live?' 

'  Oh,  it's  on  one  of  those  little  streets  that  don't  seem  to 
have  very  much  of  a  name.  But  they  do  call  it — they  do 
call  it '  she  meditated,  audibly. 

This  process  was  interrupted  by  an  abrupt  allocution 
from  the  conductor.  '  I  guess  you  change  here  for  your 
place.  You  want  one  of  them  blue  cars.' 

The  good  lady  returned  to  a  sense  of  the  situation,  and 
Ransom  helped  her  out  of  the  vehicle,  with  the  aid,  as 
before,  of  a  certain  amount  of  propulsion  from  the  con- 
ductor. Her  road  branched  off  to  the  right,  and  she  had 
to  wait  on  the  corner  of  a  street,  there  being  as  yet  no  blue 
car  within  hail.  The  corner  was  quiet  and  the  day  favour- 
able to  patience — a  day  of  relaxed  rigour  and  intense 
brilliancy.  It  was  as  if  the  touch  of  the  air  itself  were 
gloved,  and  the  street -colouring  had  the  richness  of  a 
superficial  thaw.  Ransom,  of  course,  waited  with  his 
philanthropic  companion,  though  she  now  protested  more 
vigorously  against  the  idea  that  a  gentleman  from  the 
South  should  pretend  to  teach  an  old  abolitionist  the 
mysteries  of  Boston.  He  promised  to  leave  her  when  he 
should  have  consigned  her  to  the  blue  car ;  and  meanwhile 
they  stood  in  the  sun,  with  their  backs  against  an  apothe- 
cary's window,  and  she  tried  again,  at  his  suggestion,  to 
remember  the  name  of  Doctor  Tarrant's  street.  '  I  guess 
if  you  ask  for  Doctor  Tarrant,  any  one  can  tell  you,'  she 


xxin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  219 

said;  and  then  suddenly  the  address  came  to  her — the 
residence  of  the  mesmeric  healer  was  in  Monadnoc  Place. 

'  But  you'll  have  to  ask  for  that,  so  it  comes  to  the  same,' 
she  went  on.  After  this  she  added,  with  a  friendliness 
more  personal,  'Ain't  you  going  to  see  your  cousin  too?' 

'Not  if  I  can  help  it!' 

Miss  Birdseye  gave  a  little  ineffectual  sigh.  'Well,  I 
suppose  every  one  must  act  out  their  ideal.  That's  what 
Olive  Chancellor  does.  She's  a  very  noble  character.' 

'  Oh  yes,  a  glorious  nature.' 

'  You  know  their  opinions  are  just  the  same — hers  and 
Verena's,'  Miss  Birdseye  placidly  continued.  '  So  why 
should  you  make  a  distinction?' 

'  My  dear  madam,'  said  Ransom, '  does  a  woman  consist 
of  nothing  but  her  opinions  ?  I  like  Miss  Tarrant's  lovely 
face  better,  to  begin  with.' 

'Well,  she  is  pretty-looking.'  And  Miss  Birdseye  gave 
another  sigh,  as  if  she  had  had  a  theory  submitted  to  her — 
that  one  about  a  lady's  opinions — which,  with  all  that  was 
unfamiliar  and  peculiar  lying  behind  it,  she  was  really  too 
old  to  look  into  much.  It  might  have  been  the  first  time 
she  really  felt  her  age.  '  There's  a  blue  car,'  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  mild  relief. 

'  It  will  be  some  moments  before  it  gets  here.  More- 
over, I  don't  believe  that  at  bottom  they  are  Miss  Tarrant's 
opinions,'  Ransom  added. 

'  You  mustn't  think  she  hasn't  a  strong  hold  of  them,' 
his  companion  exclaimed,  more  briskly.  '  If  you  think  she 
is  not  sincere,  you  are  very  much  mistaken.  Those  views 
are  just  her  life.' 

'  Well,  she  may  bring  me  round  to  them,'  said  Ransom, 
smiling. 

Miss  Birdseye  had  been  watching  her  blue  car,  the 
advance  of  which  was  temporarily  obstructed.  At  this, 
she  transferred  her  eyes  to  him,  gazing  at  him  solemnly  out 
of  the  pervasive  window  of  her  spectacles.  'Well,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  did  !  Yes,  that  will  be  a  good 
thing.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  being  a  good  deal 
shaken  by  her.  She  has  acted  on  so  many.' 

'  I  see ;  no  doubt  she  will  act  on  me.'     Then  it  occurred 


220  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxm. 

to  Ransom  to  add :  '  By  the  way,  Miss  Birdseye,  perhaps 
you  will  be  so  kind  as  not  to  mention  this  meeting  of  ours 
to  my  cousin,  in  case  of  your  seeing  her  again.  I  have  a 
perfectly  good  conscience  in  not  calling  upon  her,  but  I 
shouldn't  like  her  to  think  that  I  announced  my  slighting 
intention  all  over  the  town.  I  don't  want  to  offend  her, 
and  she  had  better  not  know  that  I  have  been  in  Boston. 
If  you  don't  tell  her,  no  one  else  will.' 

'Do  you  wish  me  to  conceal ?'  murmured  Miss 

Birdseye,  panting  a  little. 

'  No,  I  don't  want  you  to  conceal  anything.  I  only 
want  you  to  let  this  incident  pass — to  say  nothing.' 

'Well,  I  never  did  anything  of  that  kind.' 

'  Of  what  kind  ?'  Ransom  was  half  vexed,  half  touched 
by  her  inability  to  enter  into  his  point  of  view,  and  her 
resistance  made  him  hold  to  his  idea  the  more.  '  It  is 
very  simple,  what  I  ask  of  you.  You  are  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  tell  Miss  Chancellor  everything  that  happens  to  you, 
are  you?' 

His  request  seemed  still  something  of  a  shock  to  the 
poor  old  lady's  candour.  '  Well,  I  see  her  very  often,  and 
we  talk  a  great  deal.  And  then — won't  Verena  tell  her?' 

'I  have  thought  of  that — but  I  hope  not.' 

'  She  tells  her  most  everything.     Their  union  is  so  close.' 

'She  won't  want  her  to  be  wounded,'  Ransom  said, 
ingeniously. 

'Well,  you  are  considerate.'  And  Miss  Birdseye  con- 
tinued to  gaze  at  him.  '  It's  a  pity  you  can't  sympathise.' 

'As  I  tell  you,  perhaps  Miss  Tarrant  will  bring  me 
round.  You  have  before  you  a  possible  convert,'  Ransom 
went  on,  without,  I  fear,  putting  up  the  least  little  prayer 
to  heaven  that  his  dishonesty  might  be  forgiven. 

'  I  should  be  very  happy  to  think  that — after  I  have 
told  you  her  address  in  this  secret  way.'  A  smile  of  infinite 
mildness  glimmered  in  Miss  Birdseye's  face,  and  she  added : 
'  Well,  I  guess  that  will  be  your  fate.  She  has  affected  so 
many.  I  would  keep  very  quiet  if  I  thought  that.  Yes, 
she  will  bring  you  round.' 

'  I  will  let  you  know  as  soon  as  she  does,'  Basil  Ransom 
said.  '  Here  is  your  car  at  last' 


xxin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  221 

1  Well,  I  believe  in  the  victory  of  the  truth.  I  won't 
say  anything.'  And  she  suffered  the  young  man  to  lead 
her  to  the  car,  which  had  now  stopped  at  their  corner. 

*  I  hope  very  much  I  shall  see  you  again,'  he  remarked, 
as  they  went. 

1  Well,  I  am  always  round  the  streets,  in  Boston/  And 
while,  lifting  and  pushing,  he  was  helping  again  to  insert 
her  into  the  oblong  receptacle,  she  turned  a  little  and  re- 
peated, '  She  will  affect  you  !  If  that's  to  be  your  secret,  I 
will  keep  it,'  Ransom  heard  her  subjoin.  He  raised  his 
hat  and  waved  her  a  farewell,  but  she  didn't  see  him  ;  she 
was  squeezing  further  into  the  car  and  making  the  discovery 
that  this  time  it  was  full  and  there  was  no  seat  for  her. 
Surely,  however,  he  said  to  himself,  every  man  in  the  place 
would  offer  his  own  to  such  an  innocent  old  dear. 


XXIV. 

A  LITTLE  more  than  an  hour  after  this  he  stood  in  the 
parlour  of  Doctor  Tarrant's  suburban  residence,  in  Monadnoc 
Place.  He  had  induced  a  juvenile  maid-servant,  by  an 
appeal  somewhat  impassioned,  to  let  the  ladies  know  that 
he  was  there ;  and  she  had  returned,  after  a  long  absence, 
to  say  that  Miss  Tarrant  would  come  down  to  him  in  a 
little  while.  He  possessed  himself,  according  to  his  wont, 
of  the  nearest  book  (it  lay  on  the  table,  with  an  old  magazine 
and  a  little  japanned  tray  containing  Tarrant's  professional 
cards — his  denomination  as  a  mesmeric  healer),  and  spent 
ten  minutes  in  turning  it  over.  It  was  a  biography  of  Mrs. 
Ada  T.  P.  Foat,  the  celebrated  trance-lecturer,  and  was 
embellished  by  a  portrait  representing  the  lady  with  a  sur- 
prised expression  and  innumerable  ringlets.  Ransom  said 
to  himself,  after  reading  a  few  pages,  that  much  ridicule 
had  been  cast  upon  Southern  literature •;  but  if  that  was  a 
fair  specimen  of  Northern ! — and  he  threw  it  back  upon 
the  table  with  a  gesture  almost  as  contemptuous  as  if  he  had 
not  known  perfectly,  after  so  long  a  residence  in  the  North, 
that  it  was  not,  while  he  wondered  whether  this  was  the 
sort  of  thing  Miss  Tarrant  had  been  brought  up  on.  There 
was  no  other  book  to  be  seen,  and  he  remembered  to  have 
read  the  magazine ;  so  there  was  finally  nothing  for  him,  as 
the  occupants  of  the  house  failed  still  to  appear,  but  to 
stare  before  him,  into  the  bright,  bare,  common  little  room, 
which  was  so  hot  that  he  wished  to  open  a  window,  and  of 
which  an  ugly,  undraped  cross-light  seemed  to  have  taken 
upon  itself  to  reveal  the  poverty.  Ransom,  as  I  have 
mentioned,  had  not  a  high  standard  of  comfort,  and  noticed 
little,  usually,  how  people's  houses  were  furnished — it  was 
only  when  they  were  very  pretty  that  he  observed ;  but 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  223 

what  he  saw  while  he  waited  at  Doctor  Tarrant's  made  him 
say  to  himself  that  it  was  no  wonder  Verena  liked  better  to 
live  with  Olive  Chancellor.  He  even  began  to  wonder 
whether  it  were  for  the  sake  of  that  superior  softness  she 
had  cultivated  Miss  Chancellor's  favour,  and  whether  Mrs. 
Luna  had  been  right  about  her  being  mercenary  and  in- 
sincere. So  many  minutes  elapsed  before  she  appeared 
that  he  had  time  to  remember  he  really  knew  nothing  to 
the  contrary,  as  well  as  to  consider  the  oddity  (so  great 
when  one  did  consider  it),  of  his  coming  out  to  Cambridge 
to  see  her,  when  he  had  only  a  few  hours  in  Boston  to 
spare,  a  year  and  a  half  after  she  had  given  him  her  very 
casual  invitation.  She  had  not  refused  to  receive  him,  at 
any  rate ;  she  was  free  to,  if  it  didn't  please  her.  And  not 
only  this,  but  she  was  apparently  making  herself  fine  in  his 
honour,  inasmuch  as  he  heard  a  rapid  footstep  move  to  and 
fro  above  his  head,  and  even,  through  the  slightness  which 
in  Monadnoc  Place  did  service  for  an  upper  floor,  the 
sound  of  drawers  and  presses  opened  and  closed.  Some 
one  was  '  flying  round,'  as  they  said  in  Mississippi.  At  last 
the  stairs  creaked  under  a  light  tread,  and  the  next  moment 
a  brilliant  person  came  into  the  room. 

His  reminiscence  of  her  had  been  very  pretty ;  but  now 
that  she  had  developed  and  matured,  the  little  prophetess 
was  prettier  still.  Her  splendid  hair  seemed  to  shine ;  her 
cheek  and  chin  had  a  curve  which  struck  him  by  its  fine- 
ness ;  her  eyes  and  lips  were  full  of  smiles  and  greetings. 
She  had  appeared  to  him  before  as  a  creature  of  brightness, 
but  now  she  lighted  up  the  place,  she  irradiated,  she  made 
everything  that  surrounded  her  of  no  consequence ;  dropping 
upon  the  shabby  sofa  with  an  effect  as  charming  as  if  she 
had  been  a  nymph  sinking  on  a  leopard-skin,  and  with  the 
native  sweetness  of  her  voice  forcing  him  to  listen  till  she 
spoke  again.  It  was  not  long  before  he  perceived  that 
this  added  lustre  was  simply  success ;  she  was  young  and 
tender  still,  but  the  sound  of  a  great  applauding  audience 
had  been  in  her  ears ;  it  formed  an  element  in  which  she 
felt  buoyant  and  floated.  Still,  however,  her  glance  was  as 
pure  as  it  was  direct,  and  that  fantastic  fairness  hung  about 
her  which  had  made  an  impression  on  him  of  old,  and 


224  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxiv. 

which  reminded  him  of  unworldly  places — he  didn't  know 
where — convent-cloisters  or  vales  of  Arcady.  At  that  other 
time  she  had  been  parti-coloured  and  bedizened,  and  she 
had  always  an  air  of  costume,  only  now  her  costume  was 
richer  and  more  chastened.  It  was  her  line,  her  condition, 
part  of  her  expression.  If  at  Miss  Birdseye's,  and  after- 
wards in  Charles  Street,  she  might  have  been  a  rope-dancer, 
to-day  she  made  a  'scene'  of  the  mean  little  room  in. 
Monadnoc  Place,  such  a  scene  as  a  prima  donna  makes  of 
daubed  canvas  and  dusty  boards.  She  addressed  Basil 
Ransom  as  if  she  had  seen  him  the  other  week  and  his 
merits  were  fresh  to  her,  though  she  let  him,  while  she  sat 
smiling  at  him,  explain  in  his  own  rather  ceremonious  way 
why  it  was  he  had  presumed  to  call  upon  her  on  so  slight 
an  acquaintance — on  an  invitation  which  she  herself  had 
had  more  than  time  to  forget.  His  explanation,  as  a  finished 
and  satisfactory  thing,  quite  broke  down ;  there  was  no 
more  impressive  reason  than  that  he  had  simply  wished  to 
see  her.  He  became  aware  that  this  motive  loomed  large, 
and  that  her  listening  smile,  innocent  as  it  was,  in  the 
Arcadian  manner,  of  mockery,  seemed  to  accuse  him  of 
not  having  the  courage  of  his  inclination.  He  had  alluded 
especially  to  their  meeting  at  Miss  Chancellor's ;  there  it 
was  that  she  had  told  him  she  should  be  glad  to  see  him  in 
her  home. 

'Oh  yes,  I  remember  perfectly,  and  I  remember  quite 
as  well  seeing  you  at  Miss  Birdseye's  the  night  before.  I 
made  a  speech — don't  you  remember  ?  That  was  delight- 
ful.' 

'  It  was  delightful  indeed,'  said  Basil  Ransom. 

'  I  don't  mean  my  speech ;  I  mean  the  whole  thing. 
It  was  then  I  made  Miss  Chancellor's  acquaintance.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  know  how  we  work  together.  She 
has  done  so  much  for  me.' 

'  Do  you  still  make  speeches?'  Ransom  asked,  conscious, 
as  soon  as  he  had  uttered  it,  that  the  question  was  below 
the  mark. 

'  Still  ?  Why,  I  should  hope  so ;  it's  all  I'm  good  for  ! 
It's  my  life — or  it's  going  to  be.  And  it's  Miss  Chancellor's 
too.  We  are  determined  to  do  something.' 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  225 

'And  does  she  make  speeches  too?' 

'  Well,  she  makes  mine — or  the  best  part  of  them.  She 
tells  me  what  to  say — the  real  things,  the  strong  things. 
It's  Miss  Chancellor  as  much  as  me  !'  said  the  singular 
girl,  with  a  generous  complacency  which  was  yet  half 
ludicrous. 

'I  should  like  to  hear  you  again,'  Basil  Ransom  re- 
joined. 

'Well,  you  must  come  some  night.  You  will  have 
plenty  of  chances.  We  are  going  on  from  triumph  to 
triumph.' 

Her  brightness,  her  self-possession,  her  air  of  being  a 
public  character,  her  mixture  of  the  girlish  and  the  com- 
prehensive, startled  and  confounded  her  visitor,  who  felt 
that  if  he  had  come  to  gratify  his  curiosity  he  should  be 
in  danger  of  going  away  still  more  curious  than  satiated. 
She  added  in  her  gay,  friendly,  trustful  tone — the  tone  of 
facile  intercourse,  the  tone  in  which  happy,  flower-crowned 
maidens  may  have  talked  to  sunburnt  young  men  in  the 
golden  age — '  I  am  very  familiar  with  your  name ;  Miss 
Chancellor  has  told  me  all  about  you.' 

'All  about  me?'  Ransom  raised  his  black  eyebrows. 
'  How  could  she  do  that  ?  She  doesn't  know  anything 
about  me !' 

'  Well,  she  told  me  you  are  a  great  enemy  to  our  move- 
ment. Isn't  that  true  ?  I  think  you  expressed  some  un- 
favourable idea  that  day  I  met  you  at  her  house/ 

'  If  you  regard  me  as  an  enemy,  it's  very  kind  of  you  to 
receive  me.' 

'  Oh,  a  great  many  gentlemen  call/  Verena  said,  calmly 
and  brightly.  'Some  call  simply  to  inquire.  Some  call 
because  they  have  heard  of  me,  or  been  present  on  some 
occasion  when  I  have  moved  them.  Every  one  is  so 
interested.' 

'  And  you  have  been  in  Europe,'  Ransom  remarked,  in 
a  moment. 

'  Oh  yes,  we  went  over  to  see  if  they  were  in  advance. 
We  had  a  magnificent  time — we  saw  all  the  leaders.' 

'  The  leaders  ? '  Ransom  repeated. 

'  Of  the  emancipation  of  our  sex.  There  are  gentlemen 
Q 


226  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxiv. 

there,  as  well  as  ladies.  Olive  had  splendid  introductions 
in  all  countries,  and  we  conversed  with  all  the  earnest 
people.  We  heard  much  that  was  suggestive.  And  as  for 
Europe  !' — and  the  young  lady  paused,  smiling  at  him  and 
ending  in  a  happy  sigh,  as  if  there  were  more  to  say  on  the 
subject  than  she  could  attempt  on  such  short  notice. 

'  I  suppose  it's  very  attractive/  said  Ransom,  encourag- 
ingly. 

'  It's  just  a  dream ! ' 

*  And  did  you  find  that  they  were  in  advance  ?' 

'Well,  Miss  Chancellor  thought  they  were.  She  was 
surprised  at  some  things  we  observed,  and  concluded  that 
perhaps  she  hadn't  done  the  Europeans  justice — she  has 
got  such  an  open  mind,  it's  as  wide  as  the  sea ! — while  I 
incline  to  the  opinion  that  on  the  whole  we  make  the  better 
show.  The  state  of  the  movement  there  reflects  their 
general  culture,  and  their  general  culture  is  higher  than 
ours  (I  mean  taking  the  term  in  its  broadest  sense).  On 
the  other  hand,  the  special  condition — moral,  social, 
personal — of  our  sex  seems  to  me  to  be  superior  in  this 
country  •  I  mean  regarded  in  relation — in  proportion  as  it 
were — to  the  social  phase  at  large.  I  must  add  that  we 
did  see  some  noble  specimens  over  there.  In  England  we 
met  some  lovely  women,  highly  cultivated,  and  of  immense 
organising  power.  In  France  we  saw  some  wonderful, 
contagious  types ;  we  passed  a  delightful  evening  with  the 
celebrated  Marie  Verneuil ;  she  was  released  from  prison, 
you  know,  only  a  few  weeks  before.  Our  total  impression 
was  that  it  is  only  a  question  of  time — the  future  is  ours. 
But  everywhere  we  heard  one  cry — "  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long  ?  " ' 

Basil  Ransom  listened  to  this  considerable  statement 
with  a  feeling  which,  as  the  current  of  Miss  Tarrant's  facile 
utterance  flowed  on,  took  the  form  of  an  hilarity  charmed 
into  stillness  by  the  fear  of  losing  something.  There  was 
indeed  a  sweet  comicality  in  seeing  this  pretty  girl  sit  there 
and,  in  answer  to  a  casual,  civil  inquiry,  drop  into  oratory 
as  a  natural  thing.  Had  she  forgotten  where  she  was,  and 
did  she  take  him  for  a  full  house  ?  She  had  the  same  turns 
and  cadences,  almost  the  same  gestures,  as  if  she  had  been 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  227 

on  the  platform ;  and  the  great  queerness  of  it  was  that, 
with  such  a  manner,  she  should  escape  being  odious.  '  She 
was  not  odious,  she  was  delightful ;  she  was  not  dogmatic, 
she  was  genial  No  wonder  she  was  a  success,  if  she 
speechified  as  a  bird  sings !  Ransom  could  see,  too,  from 
her  easy  lapse,  how  the  lecture-tone  was  the  thing  in  the 
world  with  which,  by  education,  by  association,  she  was 
most  familiar.  He  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  her ;  she 
was  an  astounding  young  phenomenon.  The  other  time 
came  back  to  him  afresh,  and  how  she  had  stood  up  at 
Miss  Birdseye's ;  it  occurred  to  him  that  an  element,  here, 
had  been  wanting.  Several  moments  after  she  had  ceased 
speaking  he  became  conscious  that  the  expression  of  his 
face  presented  a  perceptible  analogy  to  a  broad  grin.  He 
changed  his  posture,  saying  the  first  thing  that  came  into 
his  head.  '  I  presume  you  do  without  your  father  now.' 

'Without  my  father?' 

'  To  set  you  going,  as  he  did  that  time  I  heard  you.' 

1  Oh,  I  see  ;  you  thought  I  had  begun  a  lecture  !'  And 
she  laughed,  in  perfect  good  humour.  '  They  tell  me  I 
speak  as  I  talk,  so  I  suppose  I  talk  as  I  speak.  But  you 
mustn't  put  me  on  what  I  saw  and  heard  in  Europe.  That's 
to  be  the  title  of  an  address  I  am  now  preparing,  by  the 
way.  Yes,  I  don't  depend  on  father  any  more,'  she  went 
on,  while  Ransom's  sense  of  having  said  too  sarcastic  a  thing 
was  deepened  by  her  perfect  indifference  to  it.  '  He  finds 
his  patients  draw  off  about  enough,  any  way.  But  I  owe 
him  everything;  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  no  one  would 
ever  have  known  I  had  a  gift — not  even  myself.  He 
started  me  so,  once  for  all,  that  I  now  go  alone.' 

'  You  go  beautifully,'  said  Ransom,  wanting  to  say  some- 
thing agreeable,  and  even  respectfully  tender,  to  her,  but 
troubled  by  the  fact  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  say 
that  didn't  sound  rather  like  chaff.  There  was  no  resent- 
ment in  her,  however,  for  in  a  moment  she  said  to  him,  as 
quickly  as  it  occurred  to  her,  in  the  manner  of  a  person 
repairing  an  accidental  omission,  '  It  was  very  good  of  you 
to  come  so  far.' 

This  was  a  sort  of  speech  it  was  never  safe  to  make  to 
Ransom;  there  was  no  telling  what  retribution  it  might 


228  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxiv. 

entail.  'Do  you  suppose  any  journey  is  too  great,  too 
wearisome,  when  it's  a  question  of  so  great  a  pleasure?' 
On  this  occasion  it  was  not  worse  than  that. 

'Well,  people  have  come  from  other  cities,'  Verena 
answered,  not  with  pretended  humility,  but  with  pretended 
pride.  '  Do  you  know  Cambridge  ?' 

'This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  here.' 

'  Well,  I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  the  university ;  it's 
so  celebrated.' 

'Yes — even  in  Mississippi.     I  suppose  it's  very  fine.' 

'I  presume  it  is,'  said  Verena;  'but  you  can't  expect 
me  to  speak  with  much  admiration  of  an  institution  of 
which  the  doors  are  closed  to  our  sex.' 

'Do  you  then  advocate  a  system  of  education  in 
common?' 

'I  advocate  equal  rights,  equal  opportunities,  equal 
privileges.  So  does  Miss  Chancellor,'  Verena  added,  with 
just  a  perceptible  air  of  feeling  that  her  declaration  needed 
support. 

'  Oh,  I  thought  what  she  wanted  was  simply  a  different 
inequality — simply  to  turn  out  the  men  altogether,'  Ransom 
said. 

'  Well,  she  thinks  we  have  great  arrears  to  make  up.  I 
do  tell  her,  sometimes,  that  what  she  desires  is  not  only 
justice  but  vengeance.  I  think  she  admits  that/  Verena 
continued,  with  a  certain  solemnity.  The  subject,  however, 
held  her  but  an  instant,  and  before  Ransom  had  time  to 
make  any  comment,  she  went  on,  in  a  different  tone  : 
'  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  live  in  Mississippi  now  ? 
Miss  Chancellor  told  me  when  you  were  in  Boston  before, 
that  you  had  located  in  New  York.'  She  persevered  in 
this  reference  to  himself,  for  when  he  had  assented  to  her 
remark  about  New  York,  she  asked  him  whether  he  had 
quite  given  up  the  South. 

'Given  it  up — the  poor,  dear,  desolate  old  South? 
Heaven  forbid  ! '  Basil  Ransom  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  added  softness.' 
'  I  presume  it  is  natural  you  should  love  your  home.  But 
I  am  afraid  you  think  I  don't  love  mine  much;  I  have 
been  here — for  so  long — so  little.  Miss  Chancellor  has 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  229 

absorbed  me — there  is  no  doubt  about  that.  But  it's  a 
pity  I  wasn't  with  her  to-day.'  Ransom  made  no  answer 
to  this ;  he  was  incapable  of  telling  Miss  Tarrant  that  if 
she  had  been  he  would  not  have  called  upon  her.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  that  he  was  not  incapable  of  hypocrisy,  for 
when  she  had  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  his  cousin  the 
night  before,  and  he  had  replied  that  he  hadn't  seen  her  at 
all,  and  she  had  exclaimed  with  a  candour  which  the  next 
minute  made  her  blush,  '  Ah,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you 
haven't  forgiven  her!' — after  this  he  put  on  a  look  of 
innocence  sufficient  to  carry  off  the  inquiry,  ( Forgiven  her 
for  what  ? ' 

Verena  coloured  at  the  sound  of  her  own  words. 
'  Well,  I  could  see  how  much  she  felt,  that  time  at  her 
house.' 

'What  did  she  feel?'  Basil  Ransom  asked,  with  the 
natural  provokingness  of  a  man. 

I  know  not  whether  Verena  was  provoked,  but  she 
answered  with  more  spirit  than  sequence :  '  Well,  you 
know  you  did  pour  contempt  on  us,  ever  so  much  ;  I  could 
see  how  it  worked  Olive  up.  Are  you  not  going  to  see 
her  at  all  ? ' 

'Well,  I  shall  think  about  that;  I  am  here  only  for 
three  or  four  days,'  said  Ransom,  smiling  as  men  smile 
when  they  are  perfectly  unsatisfactory. 

It  is  very  possible  that  Verena  was  provoked,  inac- 
cessible as  she  was,  in  a  general  way,  to  irritation ;  for  she 
rejoined  in  a  moment,  with  a  little  deliberate  air :  '  Well, 
perhaps  it's  as  well  you  shouldn't  go,  if  you  haven't  changed 
at  all.' 

'  I  haven't  changed  at  all,'  said  the  young  man,  smiling 
still,  with  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  shoulders 
pushed  up  a  little,  and  his  thin  brown  hands  interlocked  in 
front  of  him. 

*  Well,  I  have  had  visitors  who  were  quite  opposed ! ' 
Verena  announced,  as  if  such  news  could  not  possibly 
alarm  her.  Then  she  added,  '  How  then  did  you  know  I 
was  out  here  ? ' 

'  Miss  Birdseye  told  me.' 

'Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  went  to  see  her/1    the  girl 


230  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxiv. 

cried,  speaking  again  with  the  impetuosity  of  a  moment 
before. 

'  I  didn't  go  to  see  her.  I  met  her  in  the  street,  just  as 
she  was  leaving  Miss  Chancellor's  door.  I  spoke  to  her, 
and  accompanied  her  some  distance.  I  passed  that  way 
because  I  knew  it  was  the  direct  way  to  Cambridge — from 
the  Common — and  I  was  coming  out  to  see  you  any  way — 
on  the  chance.' 

4  On  the  chance  ? '  Verena  repeated. 

'Yes;  Mrs.  Luna,  in  New  York,  told  me  you  were 
sometimes  here,  and  I  wanted,  at  any  rate,  to  make  the 
attempt  to  find  you.' 

It  may  be  communicated  to  the  reader  that  it  was  very 
agreeable  to  Verena  to  learn  that  her  visitor  had  made  this 
arduous  pilgrimage  (for  she  knew  well  enough  how  people 
in  Boston  regarded  a  winter  journey  to  the  academic 
suburb)  with  only  half  the  prospect  of  a  reward ;  but  her 
pleasure  was  mixed  with  other  feelings,  or  at  least  with  the 
consciousness  that  the  whole  situation  was  rather  less 
simple  than  the  elements  of  her  life  had  been  hitherto. 
There  was  the  germ  of  disorder  in  this  invidious  distinction 
which  Mr.  Ransom  had  suddenly  made  between  Olive 
Chancellor,  who  was  related  to  him  by  blood,  and  herself, 
who  had  never  been  related  to  him  in  any  way  whatever. 
She  knew  Olive  by  this  time  well  enough  to  wish  not  to 
reveal  it  to  her,  and  yet  it  would  be  something  quite  new 
for  her  to  undertake  to  conceal  such  an  incident  as  her 
having  spent  an  hour  with  Mr.  Ransom  during  a  flying 
visit  he  had  made  to  Boston.  She  had  spent  hours  with 
other  gentlemen,  whom  Olive  didn't  see;  but  that  was 
different,  because  her  friend  knew  about  her  doing  it  and 
didn't  care,  in  regard  to  the  persons — didn't  care,  that  is, 
as  she  would  care  in  this  case.  It  was  vivid  to  Verena's 
mind  that  now  Olive  would  care.  She  had  talked  about 
Mr.  Burrage,  and  Mr.  Pardon,  and  even  about  some 
gentlemen  in  Europe,  and  she  had  not  (after  the  first  few 
days,  a  year  and  a  half  before)  talked  about  Mr.  Ransom. 

Nevertheless  there  were  reasons,  clear  to  Verena's  view, 
for  wishing  either  that  he  would  go  and  see  Olive  or  would 
keep  away  from  her ;  and  the  responsibility  of  treating  the 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  231 

fact  that  he  had  not  so  kept  away  as  a  secret  seemed  the 
greater,  perhaps,  in  the  light  of  this  other  fact,  that  so  far 
as  simply  seeing  Mr.  Ransom  went — why,  she  quite  liked 
it.  She  had  remembered  him  perfectly  after  their  two 
former  meetings,  superficial  as  their  contact  then  had  been; 
she  had  thought  of  him  at  moments  and  wondered  whether 
she  should  like  him  if  she  were  to  know  him  better.  Now, 
at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes,  she  did  know  him  better,  and 
found  that  he  had  rather  a  curious,  but  still  a  pleasant  way. 
There  he  was,  at  any  rate,  and  she  didn't  wish  his  call  to 
be  spoiled  by  any  uncomfortable  implication  of  con- 
sequences. So  she  glanced  off,  at  the  touch  of  Mrs. 
Luna's  name;  it  seemed  to  afford  relief.  'Oh  yes,  Mrs. 
Luna — isn't  she  fascinating?' 

Ransom  hesitated  a  little.  ( Well,  no,  I  don't  think .  she 
is.' 

c  You  ought  to  like  her — she  hates  our  movement ! ' 
And  Verena  asked,  further,  numerous  questions  about  the 
brilliant  Adeline ;  whether  he  saw  her  often,  whether  she 
went  out  much,  whether  she  was  admired  in  New  York, 
whether  he  thought  her  very  handsome.  He  answered  to 
the  best  of  his  ability,  but  soon  made  the  reflection  that  he 
had  not  come  out  to  Monadnoc  Place  to  talk  about  Mrs. 
Luna ;  in  consequence  of  which,  to  change  the  subject  (as 
well  as  to  acquit  himself  of  a  social  duty),  he  began  to 
speak  of  Verena's  parents,  to  express  regret  that  Mrs. 
Tarrant  had  been  sick,  and  fear  that  he  was  not  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her.  '  She  is  a  great  deal  better,'  Verena 
said ;  '  but  she's  lying  down ;  she  lies  down  a  great  deal 
when  she  has  got  nothing  else  to  do.  Mother's  very 
peculiar,'  she  added  in  a  moment ;  '  she  lies  down  when 
she  feels  well  and  happy,  and  when  she's  sick  she  walks 
about — she  roams  all  round  the  house.  If  you  hear  her 
on  the  stairs  a  good  deal,  you  can  be  pretty  sure  she's  very 
bad.  She'll  be  very  much  interested  to  hear  about  you 
after  you  have  left.' 

Ransom  glanced  at  his  watch.  {I  hope  I  am  not  staying 
too  long — that  I  am  not  taking  you  away  from  her.' 

'  Oh  no ;  she  likes  visitors,  even  when  she  can't  see 
them.  If  it  didn't  take  her  so  long  to  rise,  she  would  have 


232  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxiv. 

been  down  here  by  this  time.  I  suppose  you  think  she  has 
missed  me,  since  I  have  been  so  absorbed.  Well,  so  she 
has,  but  she  knows  it's  for  my  good.  She  would  make  any 
sacrifice  for  affection.' 

The  fancy  suddenly  struck  Ransom  of  asking,  in  response 
to  this,  'And  you?  would  you  make  any?' 

Verena  gave  him  a  bright  natural  stare.  '  Any  sacrifice 
for  affection?'  She  thought  a  moment,  and  then  she  said  : 
'  I  don't  think  I  have  a  right  to  say,  because  I  have  never 
been  asked.  I  don't  remember  ever  to  have  had  to  make 
a  sacrifice — not  an  important  one.' 

'  Lord  !  you  must  have  had  a  happy  life  !' 

'I  have  been  very  fortunate,  I  know  that.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  when  I  think  how  some  women — how 
most  women — suffer.  But  I  must  not  speak  of  that,'  she 
went  on,  with  her  smile  coming  back  to  her.  '  If  you 
oppose  our  movement,  you  won't  want  to  hear  of  the 
suffering  of  women  !' 

'  The  suffering  of  women  is  the  suffering  of  all  humanity,' 
Ransom  returned.  '  Do  you  think  any  movement  is  going 
to  stop  that — or  all  the  lectures  from  now  to  doomsday  ? 
We  are  born  to  suffer — and  to  bear  it,  like  decent  people.' 

*  Oh,  I  adore  heroism ! '  Verena  interposed. 

'  And  as  for  women,'  Ransom  went  on,  '  they  have  one 
source  of  happiness  that  is  closed  to  us — the  consciousness 
that  their  presence  here  below  lifts  half  the  load  of  our 
suffering.' 

Verena  thought  this  very  graceful,  but  she  was  not  sure 
it  was  not  rather  sophistical ;  she  would  have  liked  to  have 
Olive's  judgment  upon  it.  As  that  was  not  possible  for  the 
present,  she  abandoned  the  question  (since  learning  that  Mr. 
Ransom  had  passed  over  Olive,  to  come  to  her,  she  had 
become  rather  fidgety),  and  inquired  of  the  young  man, 
irrelevantly,  whether  he  knew  any  one  else  in  Cambridge. 

'  Not  a  creature ;  as  I  tell  you,  I  have  never  been  here 
before.  Your  image  alone  attracted  me;  this  charming 
interview  will  be  henceforth  my  only  association  with  the 
place.' 

1  It's  a  pity  you  couldn't  have  a  few  more,'  said  Verena, 
musingly. 


xxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  233 

'A  few  more  interviews?  I  should  be  unspeakably 
delighted !' 

'  A  few  more  associations.  Did  you  see  the  colleges  as 
you  came?' 

'  I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  large  enclosure,  with  some  big 
buildings.  Perhaps  I  can  look  at  them  better  as  I  go  back 
to  Boston.' 

'  Oh  yes,  you  ought  to  see  them — they  have  improved 
so  much  of  late.  The  inner  life,  of  course,  is  the  greatest 
interest,  but  there  is  some  fine  architecture,  if  you  are  not 
familiar  with  Europe.'  She  paused  a  moment,  looking  at 
him  with  an  eye  that  seemed  to  brighten,  and  continued 
quickly,  like  a  person  who  had  collected  herself  for  a  little 
jump,  '  If  you  would  like  to  walk  round  a  little,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  show  you.' 

'To  walk  round — with  you  to  show  me?'  Ransom 
repeated.  '  My  dear  Miss  Tarrant,  it  would  be  the  greatest 
privilege — the  greatest  happiness — of  my  life.  What  a 
delightful  idea — what  an  ideal  guide  ! ' 

Verena  got  up ;  she  would  go  and  put  on  her  hat ;  he 
must  wait  a  little.  Her  offer  had  a  frankness  and  friendli- 
ness which  gave  him  a  new  sensation,  and  he  could 
not  know  that  as  soon  as  she  had  made  it  (though  she  had 
hesitated  too,  with  a  moment  of  intense  reflection),  she 
seemed  to  herself  strangely  reckless.  An  impulse  pushed 
her ;  she  obeyed  it  with  her  eyes  open.  She  felt  as  a  girl 
feels  when  she  commits  her  first  conscious  indiscretion. 
She  had  done  many  things  before  which  many  people  would 
have  called  indiscreet,  but  that  quality  had  not  even  faintly 
belonged  to  them  in  her  own  mind ;  she  had  done  them  in 
perfect  good  faith  and  with  a  remarkable  absence  of  palpita- 
tion. This  superficially  ingenuous  proposal  to  walk  around 
the  colleges  with  Mr.  Ransom  had  really  another  colour  \  it 
deepened  the  ambiguity  of  her  position,  by  reason  of  a  pre- 
vision which  I  shall  presently  mention.  If  Olive  was  not 
to  know  that  she  had  seen  him,  this  extension  of  their 
interview  would  double  her  secret.  And  yet,  while  she  saw 
it  grow — this  monstrous  little  mystery — she  couldn't  feel 
sorry  that  she  was  going  out  with  Olive's  cousin.  As  I 
have  already  said,  she  had  become  nervous.  She  went  to 


234  THE  BOSTONIANS.      \  xxiv. 

put  on  her  hat,  but  at  the  door  of  the  room  she  stopped, 
turned  round,  and  presented  herself  to  her  visitor  with  a 
small  spot  in  either  cheek,  which  had  appeared  there  with- 
in the  instant.  '  I  have  suggested  this,  because  it  seems  to 
me  I  ought  to  do  something  for  you — in  return,'  she  said. 
'  It's  nothing,  simply  sitting  there  with  me.  And  we  haven't 
got  anything  else.  This  is  our  only  hospitality.  And  the 
day  seems  so  splendid.' 

The  modesty,  the  sweetness,  of  this  little  explanation, 
with  a  kind  of  intimated  desire,  constituting  almost  an 
appeal,  for  Tightness,  which  seemed  to  pervade  it,  left  a 
fragrance  in  the  air  after  she  had  vanished.  Ransom 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  under  the  influence  of  it,  without  taking  up  even 
once  the  book  about  Mrs.  Foat.  He  occupied  the  time  in 
asking  himself  by  what  perversity  of  fate  or  of  inclination 
such  a  charming  creature  was  ranting  upon  platforms  and 
living  in  Olive  Chancellor's  pocket,  or  how  a  ranter  and 
sycophant  could  possibly  be  so  engaging.  And  she  was  so 
disturbingly  beautiful,  too.  This  last  fact  was  not  less 
evident  when  she  came  down  arranged  for  their  walk. 
They  left  the  house,  and  as  they  proceeded  he  remembered 
that  he  had  asked  himself  earlier  how  he  could  do  honour 
to  such  a  combination  of  leisure  and  ethereal  mildness  as 
he  had  waked  up  to  that  morning — a  mildness  that  seemed 
the  very  breath  of  his  own  latitude.  This  question  was 
answered  now ;  to  do  exactly  what  he  was  doing  at  that 
moment  was  an  observance  sufficiently  festive. 


XXV. 

THEY  passed  through  two  or  three  small,  short  streets, 
which,  with  their  little  wooden  houses,  with  still  more 
wooden  door-yards,  looked  as  if  they  had  been  con- 
structed by  the  nearest  carpenter  and  his  boy — a  sightless, 
soundless,  interspaced,  embryonic  region — and  entered  a 
long  avenue  which,  fringed  on  either  side  with  fresh  villas, 
offering  themselves  trustfully  to  the  public,  had  the  distinc- 
tion of  a  wide  pavement  of  neat  red  brick.  The  new  paint 
on  the  square  detached  houses  shone  afar  off  in  the  trans- 
parent air :  they  had,  on  top,  little  cupolas  and  belvederes, 
in  front  a  pillared  piazza,  made  bare  by  the  indoor  life  of 
winter,  on  either  side  a  bow-window  or  two,  and  everywhere 
an  embellishment  of  scallops,  brackets,  cornices,  wooden 
nourishes.  They  stood,  for  the  most  part,  on  small 
eminences,  lifted  above  the  impertinence  of  hedge  or  paling, 
well  up  before  the  world,  with  all  the  good  conscience 
which  in  many  cases  came,  as  Ransom  saw  (and  he  had 
noticed  the  same  ornament  when  he  traversed  with  Olive 
the  quarter  of  Boston  inhabited  by  Miss  Birdseye),  from  a 
silvered  number,  affixed  to  the  glass  above  the  door,  in 
figures  huge  enough  to  be  read  by  the  people  who,  in  the 
periodic  horse-cars,  travelled  along  the  middle  of  the  avenue. 
It  was  to  these  glittering  badges  that  many  of  the  houses  on 
either  side  owed  their  principal  identity.  One  of  the  horse- 
cars  now  advanced  in  the  straight,  spacious  distance ;  it  was 
almost  the  only  object  that  animated  the  prospect,  which, 
in  its  large  cleanness,  its  implication  of  strict  business- 
habits  on  the  part  of  all  the  people  who  were  not  there, 
Ransom  thought  very  impressive.  As  he  went  on  with 
Verena  he  asked  her  about  the  Women's  Convention,  the 
year  before ;  whether  it  had  accomplished  much  work  and 
she  had  enjoyed  it. 


236  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxv. 

'What  do  you  care  about  the  work  it  accomplished?' 
said  the  girl.  '  You  don't  take  any  interest  in  that.' 

'  You  mistake  my  attitude.  I  don't  like  it,  but  I  greatly 
fear  it.' 

In  answer  to  this  Verena  gave  a  free  laugh.  '  I  don't 
believe  you  fear  much  !' 

'  The  bravest  men  have  been  afraid  of  women.  Won't 
you  even  tell  me  whether  you  enjoyed  it  ?  I  am  told  you 
made  an  immense  sensation  there — that  you  leaped  into 
fame.' 

Verena  never  waved  off  an  allusion  to  her  ability,  her 
eloquence;  she  took  it  seriously,  without  any  flutter  or 
protest,  and  had  no  more  manner  about  it  than  if  it  con- 
cerned the  goddess  Minerva.  'I  believe  I  attracted 
considerable  attention ;  of  course,  that's  what  Olive  wants 
— it  paves  the  way  for  future  work.  I  have  no  doubt  I 
reached  many  that  wouldn't  have  been  reached  otherwise. 
They  think  that's  my  great  use — to  take  hold  of  the  out- 
siders, as  it  were ;  of  those  who  are  prejudiced  or  thought- 
less, or  who  don't  care  about  anything  unless  it's  amusing. 
I  wake  up  the  attention.' 

'  That's  the  class  to  which  I  belong,'  Ransom  said.  'Am 
I  not  an  outsider  ?  I  wonder  whether  you  would  have 
reached  me — or  waked  up  my  attention  ! ' 

Verena  was  silent  awhile,  as  they  walked ;  he  heard  the 
light  click  of  her  boots  on  the  smooth  bricks.  Then — '  I 
think  I  have  waked  it  up  a  little,'  she  replied,  looking 
straight  before  her. 

'  Most  assuredly !  You  have  made  me  wish  tremen- 
dously to  contradict  you.' 

4  Well,  that's  a  good  sign.' 

'  I  suppose  it  was  very  exciting  —  your  convention,' 
Ransom  went  on,  in  a  moment;  'the  sort  of  thing  you 
would  miss  very  much  if  you  were  to  return  to  the  ancient 
fold.' 

'  The  ancient  fold,  you  say  very  well,  where  women  were 
slaughtered  like  sheep  !  Oh,  last  June,  for  a  week,  we  just 
quivered !  There  were  delegates  from  every  State  and 
every  city ;  we  lived  in  a  crowd  of  people  and  of  ideas ; 
the  heat  was  intense,  the  weather  magnificent,  and  great 


xxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  237 

thoughts  and  brilliant  sayings  flew  round  like  darting  fire- 
flies. Olive  had  six  celebrated,  high-minded  women  staying 
in  her  house — two  in  a  room ;  and  in  the  summer  evenings 
we  sat  in  the  open  windows,  in  her  parlour,  looking  out  on 
the  bay,  with  the  lights  gleaming  in  the  water,  and  talked 
over  the  doings  of  the  morning,  the  speeches,  the  incidents, 
the  fresh  contributions  to  the  cause.  We  had  some  tre- 
mendously earnest  discussions,  which  it  would  have  been  a 
benefit  to  you  to  hear,  or  any  man  who  doesn't  think  that 
we  can  rise  to  the  highest  point.  Then  we  had  some 
refreshment — we  consumed  quantities  of  ice-cream ! '  said 
Verena,  in  whom  the  note  of  gaiety  alternated  with  that  of 
earnestness,  almost  of  exaltation,  in  a  manner  which  seemed 
to  Basil  Ransom  absolutely  and  fascinatingly  original. 
'Those  were  great  nights  !'  she  added,  between  a  laugh  and 
a  sigh. 

Her  description  of  the  convention  put  the  scene  before 
him  vividly;  he  seemed  to  see  the  crowded,  overheated 
hall,  which  he  was  sure  was  filled  with  carpet-baggers,  to 
hear  flushed  women,  with  loosened  bonnet-strings,  forcing 
thin  voices  into  ineffectual  shrillness.  It  made  him  angry, 
and  all  the  more  angry,  that  he  hadn't  a  reason,  to  think  of 
the  charming  creature  at  his  side  being  mixed  up  with  such 
elements,  pushed  and  elbowed  by  them,  conjoined  with 
them  in  emulation,  in  unsightly  strainings  and  clappings 
and  shoutings,  in  wordy,  windy  iteration  of  inanities. 
Worst  of  all  was  the  idea  that  she  should  have  expressed 
such  a  congregation  to  itself  so  acceptably,  have  been 
acclaimed  and  applauded  by  hoarse  throats,  have  been 
lifted  up,  to  all  the  vulgar  multitude,  as  the  queen  of  the 
occasion.  He  made  the  reflection,  afterwards,  that  he  was 
singularly  ill -grounded  in  his  wrath,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
none  of  his  business  what  use  Miss  Tarrant  chose  to  make 
of  her  energies,  and,  in  addition  to  this,  nothing  else  was  to 
have  been  expected  of  her.  But  that  reflection  was  absent 
now,  and  in  its  absence  he  saw  only  the  fact  that  his 
companion  had  been  odiously  perverted.  'Well,  Miss 
Tarrant,'  he  said,  with  a  deeper  seriousness  than  showed 
in  his  voice,  '  I  am  forced  to  the  painful  conclusion  that 
you  are  simply  ruined.' 


238  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxv. 

1  Ruined  ?     Ruined  yourself !' 

'  Oh,  I  know  the  kind  of  women  that  Miss  Chancellor 
had  at  her  house,  and  what  a  group  you  must  have  made 
when  you  looked  out  at  the  Back  Bay  1  It  depresses  me 
very  much  to  think  of  it.' 

'  We  made  a  lovely,  interesting  group,  and,  if  we  had 
had  a  spare  minute  we  would  have  been  photographed,' 
Verena  said. 

This  led  him  to  ask  her  if  she  had  ever  subjected  herself 
to  the  process ;  and  she  answered  that  a  photographer  had 
been  after  her  as  soon  as  she  got  back  from  Europe,  and 
that  she  had  sat  for  him,  and  that  there  were  certain  shops 
in  Boston  where  her  portrait  could  be  obtained.  She  gave 
him  this  information  very  simply,  without  pretence  of  vague- 
ness of  knowledge,  spoke  of  the  matter  rather  respectfully, 
indeed,  as  if  it  might  be  of  some  importance  ;  and  when  he 
said  that  he  should  go  and  buy  one  of  the  little  pictures  as 
soon  as  he  returned  to  town,  contented  herself  with  replying, 
'Well,  be  sure  you  pick  out  a  good  one!'  He  had  not 
been  altogether  without  a  hope  that  she  would  offer  to  give 
him  .one,  with  her  name  written  beneath,  which  was  a  mode 
of  acquisition  he  would  greatly  have  preferred;  but  this, 
evidently,  had  not  occurred  to  her,  and  now,  as  they  went 
further,  her  thought  was  following  a  different  train.  That 
was  proved  by  her  remarking,  at  the  end  of  a  silence,  in- 
consequently,  '  Well,  it  showed  I  have  a  great  use ! '  As 
he  stared,  wondering  what  she  meant,  she  explained  that 
she  referred  to  the  brilliancy  of  her  success-  at  the  conven- 
tion. '  It  proved  I  have  a  great  use,'  she  repeated,  '  and 
that  is  all  I  care  for ! ' 

'  The  use  of  a  truly  amiable  woman  is  to  make  some  honest 
man  happy,'  Ransom  said,  with  a  sententiousness  of  which 
he  was  perfectly  aware. 

It  was  so  marked  that  it  caused  her  to  stop  short  in  the 
middle  of  the  broad  walk,  while  she  looked  at  him  with 
shining  eyes.  '  See  here,  Mr.  Ransom,  do  you  know  what 
strikes  me?'  she  exclaimed.  'The  interest  you  take  in  me 
isn't  really  controversial — a  bit.  It's  quite  personal !'  She 
was  the  most  extraordinary  girl;  she  could  speak  such 
words  as  those  without  the  smallest  look  of  added  con- 


xxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  239 

sciousness  coming  into  her  face,  without  the  least  supposable 
intention  of  coquetry,  or  any  visible  purpose  of  challenging 
the  young  man  to  say  more. 

'My  interest  in  you — my  interest  in  you,'  he  began. 
Then  hesitating,  he  broke  off  suddenly.  '  It  is  certain  your 
discovery  doesn't  make  it  any  less  !' 

'  Well,  that's  better,'  she  went  on;  'for  we  needn't  dispute.' 

He  laughed  at  the  way  she  arranged  it,  and  they 
presently  reached  the  irregular  group  of  heterogeneous 
buildings — chapels,  dormitories,  libraries,  halls — which, 
scattered  among  slender  trees,  over  a  space  reserved  by 
means  of  a  low  rustic  fence,  rather  than  inclosed  (for 
Harvard  knows  nothing  either  of  the  jealousy  or  the  dignity 
of  high  walls  and  guarded  gateways),  constitutes  the  great 
university  of  Massachusetts.  The  yard,  or  college-precinct, 
is  traversed  by  a  number  of  straight  little  paths,  over  which, 
at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  a  thousand  undergraduates, 
with  books  under  their  arm  and  youth  in  their  step,  flit 
from  one  school  to  another.  Verena  Tarrant  knew  her  way 
round,  as  she  said  to  her  companion ;  it  was  not  the  first 
time  she  had  taken  an  admiring  visitor  to  see  the  Iqcal 
monuments.  Basil  Ransom,  walking  with  her  from  point 
to  point,  admired  them  all,  and  thought  several  of  them 
exceedingly  quaint  and  venerable.  The  rectangular  struc- 
tures of  old  red  brick  especially  gratified  his  eye ;  the 
afternoon  sun  was  yellow  on  their  homely  faces;  their 
windows  showed  a  peep  of  flower-pots  and  bright-coloured 
curtains ;  they  wore  an  expression  of  scholastic  quietude, 
and  exhaled  for  the  young  Mississippian  a  tradition,  an 
antiquity.  '  This  is  the  place  where  I  ought  to  have  been,' 
he  said  to  his  charming  guide.  'I  should  have  had  a 
good  time  if  I  had  been  able  to  study  here.' 

'  Yes ;  I  presume  you  feel  yourself  drawn  to  any  place 
where  ancient  prejudices  are  garnered  up/  she  answered, 
not  without  archness.  'I  know  by  the  stand  you  take 
about  our  cause  that  you  share  the  superstitions  of  the  old 
bookmen.  You  ought  to  have  been  at  one  of  those  really 
mediaeval  universities  that  we  saw  on  the  other  side,  at 
Oxford,  or  Gottingen,  or  Padua.  You  would  have  been 
in  perfect  sympathy  with  their  spirit.' 


240  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxv. 

'Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  those  old  haunts,' 
Ransom  rejoined.  '  I  reckon  this  is  good  enough  for  me. 
And  then  it  would  have  had  the  advantage  that  your 
residence  isn't  far,  you  know.' 

'  Oh,  I  guess  we  shouldn't  have  seen  you  much  at  my 
residence  !  As  you  live  in  New  York,  you  come,  but  here 
you  wouldn't ;  that  is  always  the  way.'  With  this  light 
philosophy  Verena  beguiled  the  transit  to  the  library,  into 
which  she  introduced  her  companion  with  the  air  of  a 
person  familiar  with  the  sanctified  spot.  This  edifice,  a 
diminished  copy  of  the  chapel  of  King's  College,  at  the 
greater  Cambridge,  is  a  rich  and  impressive  institution ;  and 
as  he  stood  there,  in  the  bright,  heated  stillness,  which 
seemed  suffused  with  the  odour  of  old  print  and  old 
bindings,  and  looked  up  into  the  high,  light  vaults  that 
hung  over  quiet  book-laden  galleries,  alcoves  and  tables, 
and  glazed  cases  where  rarer  treasures  gleamed  more 
vaguely,  over  busts  of  benefactors  and  portraits  of  worthies, 
bowed  heads  of  working  students  and  the  gentle  creak  of 
passing  messengers — as  he  took  possession,  in  a  compre- 
hensive glance,  of  the  wealth  and  wisdom  of  the  place,  he 
felt  more  than  ever  the  soreness  of  an  opportunity  missed ; 
but  he  abstained  from  expressing  it  (it  was  too  deep  for 
that),  and  in  a  moment  Verena  had  introduced  him  to  a 
young  lady,  a  friend  of  hers,  who,  as  she  explained,  was 
working  on  the  catalogue,  and  whom  she  had  asked  for  on 
entering  the  library,  at  a  desk  where  another  young  lady 
was  occupied.  Miss  Catching,  the  first-mentioned  young 
lady,  presented  herself  with  promptness,  offered  Verena  a 
low -toned  but  appreciative  greeting,  and,  after  a  little, 
undertook  to  explain  to  Ransom  the  mysteries  of  the 
catalogue,  which  consisted  of  a  myriad  little  cards,  disposed 
alphabetically  in  immense  chests  of  drawers.  Ransom  was 
deeply  interested,  and  as,  with  Verena,  he  followed  Miss 
Catching  about  (she  was  so  good  as  to  show  them  the 
establishment  in  all  its  ramifications),  he  considered  with 
attention  the  young  lady's  fair  ringlets  and  refined,  anxious 
expression,  saying  to  himself  that  this  was  in  the  highest 
degree  a  New  England  type.  Verena  found  an  opportunity 
to  mention  to  him  that  she  was  wrapped  up  in  the  cause, 


xxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  241 

and  there  was  a  moment  during  which  he  was  afraid  that 
his  companion  would  expose  him  to  her  as  one  of  its 
traducers ;  but  there  was  that  in  Miss  Catching's  manner 
(and  in  the  influence  of  the  lofty  halls),  which  deprecated 
loud  pleasantry,  and  seemed  to  say,  moreover,  that  if  she 
were  treated  to  such  a  revelation  she  should  not  know  under 
what  letter  to  range  it. 

'Now  there  is  one  place  where  perhaps  it  would  be 
indelicate  to  take  a  Mississippian,'  Verena  said,  after  this 
episode.  '  I  mean  the  great  place  that  towers  above  the 
others — that  big  building  with  the  beautiful  pinnacles, 
which  you  see  from  every  point.'  But  Basil  Ransom  had 
heard  of  the  great  Memorial  Hall ;  he  knew  what  memories 
it  enshrined,  and  the  worst  that  he  should  have  to  suffer 
there ;  and  the  ornate,  overtopping  structure,  which  was 
the  finest  piece  of  architecture  he  had  ever  seen,  had  more- 
over solicited  his  enlarged  curiosity  for  the  last  half -hour. 
He  thought  there  was  rather  too  much  brick  about  it,  but 
it  was  buttressed,  cloistered,  turreted,  dedicated,  super- 
scribed, as  he  had  never  seen  anything ;  though  it  didn't 
look  old,  it  looked  significant ;  it  covered  a  large  area,  and 
it  sprang  majestic  into  the  winter  air.  It  was  detached 
from  the  rest  of  the  collegiate  group,  and  stood  in  a  grassy 
triangle  of  its  own.  As  he  approached  it  with  Verena  she 
suddenly  stopped,  to  decline  responsibility.  '  Now  mind,  if 
you  don't  like  what's  inside,  it  isn't  my  fault.' 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant,  smiling.  'Is  there  any- 
thing against  Mississippi?' 

'  Well,  no,  I  don't  think  she  is  mentioned.  But  there  is 
great  praise  of  our  young  men  in  the  war.' 

*  It  says  they  were  brave,  I  suppose.' 

'  Yes,  it  says  so  in  Latin.' 

'Well,  so  they  were — I  know  something  about  that,' 
Basil  Ransom  said.  '  I  must  be  brave  enough  to  face 
them — it  isn't  the  first  time.'  And  they  went  up  the  low 
steps  and  passed  into  the  tall  doors.  The  Memorial  Hall 
of  Harvard  consists  of  three  main  divisions :  one  of  them 
a  theatre,  for  academic  ceremonies ;  another  a  vast  refectory, 
covered  with  a  timbered  roof,  hung  about  with  portraits  and 
lighted  by  stained  windows,  like  the  halls  of  the  colleges  of 


242  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxv. 

Oxford;  and  the  third,  the  most  interesting,  a  chamber 
high,  dim,  and  severe,  consecrated  to  the  sons  of  the 
university  who  fell  in  the  long  Civil  War.  Ransom  and  his 
companion  wandered  from  one  part  of  the  building  to 
another,  and  stayed  their  steps  at  several  impressive  points ; 
but  they  lingered  longest  in  the  presence  of  the  white, 
ranged  tablets,  each  of  which,  in  its  proud,  sad  clearness,  is 
inscribed  with  the  name  of  a  student-soldier.  The  effect  of 
the  place  is  singularly  noble  and  solemn,  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  feel  it  without  a  lifting  of  the  heart.  It  stands 
there  for  duty  and  honour,  it  speaks  of  sacrifice  and 
example,  seems  a  kind  of  temple  to  youth,  manhood, 
generosity.  Most  of  them  were  young,  all  were  in  their 
prime,  and  all  of  them  had  fallen ;  this  simple  idea  hovers 
before  the  visitor  and  makes  him  read  with  tenderness  each 
name  and  place — names  often  without  other  history,  and 
forgotten  Southern  battles.  For  Ransom  these  things  were 
not  a  challenge  nor  a  taunt ;  they  touched  him  with  respect, 
with  the  sentiment  of  beauty.  He  was  capable  of  being  a 
generous  foeman,  and  he  forgot,  now,  the  whole  question  of 
sides  and  parties ;  the  simple  emotion  of  the  old  fighting- 
time  came  back  to  him,  and  the  monument  around  him 
seemed  an  embodiment  of  that  memory;  it  arched  over 
friends  as  well  as  enemies,  the  victims  of  defeat  as  well  as 
the  sons  of  triumph. 

'  It  is  very  beautiful — but  I  think  it  is  very  dreadful ! ' 
This  remark,  from  Verena,  called  him  back  to  the  present. 
'  It's  a  real  sin  to  put  up  such  a  building,  just  to  glorify  a 
lot  of  bloodshed.  If  it  wasn't  so  majestic,  I  would  have 
it  pulled  down.' 

'  That  is  delightful  feminine  logic  ! '  Ransom  answered. 
'  If,  when  women  have  the  conduct  of  affairs,  they  fight  as 
well  as  they  reason,  surely  for  them  too  we  shall  have  to 
set  up  memorials.' 

Verena  retorted  that  they  would  reason  so  well  they 
would  have  no  need  to  fight — they  would  usher  in  the  reign 
of  peace.  'But  this  is  very  peaceful  too,'  she  added, 
looking  about  her ;  and  she  sat  down  on  a  low  stone  ledge, 
as  if  to  enjoy  the  influence  of  the  scene.  Ransom  left  her 
alone  for  ten  minutes ;  he  wished  to  take  another  look  at 


THE  BOSTONIANS.  243 


the  inscribed  tablets,  and  read  again  the  names  of  the 
various  engagements,  at  several  of  which  he  had  been  present. 
When  he  came  back  to  her  she  greeted  him  abruptly,  with 
a  question  which  had  no  reference  to  the  solemnity  of  the 
spot.  '  If  Miss  Birdseye  knew  you  were  coming  out  to  see 
me,  can't  she  easily  tell  Olive  ?  Then  won't  Olive  make 
her  reflections  about  your  neglect  of  herself?' 

1 1  don't  care  for  her  reflections.  At  any  rate,  I  asked 
Miss  Birdseye,  as  a  favour,  not  to  mention  to  her  that  she 
had  met  me,'  Ransom  added. 

Verena  was  silent  a  moment.  *  Your  logic  is  almost  as 
good  as  a  woman's.  Do  change  your  mind  and  go  to  see 
her  now,'  she  went  on.  '  She  will  probably  be  at  home  by 
the  time  you  get  to  Charles  Street.  If  she  was  a  little 
strange,  a  little  stiff  with  you  before  (I  know  just  how  she 
must  have  been),  all  that  will  be  different  to-day.' 

'  Why  will  it  be  different  ? ' 

'Oh,  she  will  be  easier,  more  genial,  much  softer.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it,'  said  Ransom ;  and  his  scepticism 
seemed  none  the  less  complete  because  it  was  light  and 
smiling. 

'  She  is  much  happier  now — she  can  afford  not  to  mind 
you.' 

'  Not  to  mind  me  ?  That's  a  nice  inducement  for  a 
gentleman  to  go  and  see  a  lady  ! ' 

'  Well,  she  will  be  more  gracious,  because  she  feels  now 
that  she  is  more  successful.' 

*  You  mean  because  she  has  brought  you  out  ?  Oh,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  has  cleared  the  air  for  her  immensely, 
and  you  have  improved  her  very  much.  But  I  have  got  a 
charming  impression  out  here,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  put 
another — which  won't  be  charming,  anyhow  you  arrange 
it — on  top  of  it.' 

'  Well,  she  will  be  sure  to  know  you  have  been  round 
here,  at  any  rate,'  Verena  rejoined. 

'  How  will  she  know,  unless  you  tell  her  ? ' 

1 1  tell  her  everything,'  said  the  girl  j  and  now  as  soon  as 
she  had  spoken,  she  blushed.  He  stood  before  her,  tracing 
a  figure  on  the  mosaic  pavement  with  his  cane,  conscious 
that  in  a  moment  they  had  become  more  intimate.  They 


244  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxv. 

were  discussing  their  affairs,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  heroic  symbols  that  surrounded  them ;  but  their  affairs 
had  suddenly  grown  so  serious  that  there  was  no  want  of 
decency  in  their  lingering  there  for  the  purpose.  The  im- 
plication that  his  visit  might  remain  as  a  secret  between 
them  made  them  both  feel  it  differently.  To  ask  her  to 
keep  it  so  would  have  been,  as  it  seemed  to  Ransom,  a 
liberty,  and,  moreover,  he  didn't  care  so  much  as  that ;  but 
if  she  were  to  prefer  to  do  so  such  a  preference  would  only 
make  him  consider  the  more  that  his  expedition  had  been 
a  success". 

'  Oh,  then,  you  can  tell  her  this  ! '  he  said  in  a  moment. 

'  If  I  shouldn't,  it  would  be  the  first '  And  Verena 

checked  herself. 

'  You  must  arrange  that  with  your  conscience,'  Ransom 
went  on,  laughing. 

They  came  out  of  the  hall,  passed  down  the  steps,  and 
emerged  from  the  Delta,  as  that  portion  of  the  college 
precinct  is  called.  The  afternoon  had  begun  to  wane,  but 
the  air  was  filled  with  a  pink  brightness,  and  there  was  a 
cool,  pure  smell,  a  vague  breath  of  spring. 

( Well,  if  I  don't  tell  Olive,  then  you  must  leave  me 
here,'  said  Verena,  stopping  in  the  path  and  putting  out  a 
hand  of  farewell. 

'I  don't  understand.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it? 
Besides  I  thought  you  said  you  must  tell,'  Ransom  added. 
In  playing  with  the  subject  this  way,  in  enjoying  her 
visible  hesitation,  he  was  slightly  conscious  of  a  man's 
brutality — of  being  pushed  by  an  impulse  to  test  her  good- 
nature, which  seemed  to  have  no  limit.  It  showed  no  sign 
of  perturbation  as  she  answered  : 

'  Well,  I  want  to  be  free — to  do  as  I  think  best.  And, 
if  there  is  a  chance  of  my  keeping  it  back,  there  mustn't  be 
anything  more — there  must  not,  Mr.  Ransom,  really,' 

'  Anything  more  ?  Why,  what  are  you  afraid  there  will 
be — if  I  should  simply  walk  home  with  you  ?  ' 

'  I  must  go  alone,  I  must  hurry  back  to  mother,'  she 
said,  for  all  reply.  And  she  again  put  out  her  hand,  which 
he  had  not  taken  before. 

Of  course  he  took  it  now,  and  even  held  it  a  moment ; 


xxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  245 

he  didn't  like  being  dismissed,  and  was  thinking  of  pretexts 
to  linger.  '  Miss  Birdseye  said  you  would  convert  me,  but 
you  haven't  yet,'  it  came  into  his  head  to  say. 

'You  can't  tell  yet;  wait  a  little.  My  influence  is 
peculiar  j  it  sometimes  comes  out  a  long  time  afterwards  ! ' 
This  speech,  on  Verena's  part,  was  evidently  perfunctory,  and 
the  grandeur  of  her  self-reference  jocular ;  she  was  much 
more  serious  when  she  went  on  quickly,  *  Do  you  mean  to 
say  Miss  Birdseye  promised  you  that  ? ' . 

'  Oh  yes.  Talk  about  influence  !  you  should  have  seen 
the  influence  I  obtained  over  her.' 

'  Well,  what  good  will  it  do,  if  I'm  going  to  tell  Olive 
about  your  visit  ? ' 

'  Well,  you  see,  I  think  she  hopes  you  won't.  She  believes 
you  are  going  to  convert  me  privately — so  that  I  shall  blaze 
forth,  suddenly,  out  of  the  darkness  of  Mississippi,  as  a  first- 
class  proselyte  :  very  effective  and  dramatic.' 

Verena  struck  Basil  Ransom  as  constantly  simple,  but 
there  were  moments  when  her  candour  seemed  to  him 
preternatural.  '  If  I  thought  that  would  be  the  effect,  I 
might  make  an  exception,'  she  remarked,  speaking  as  if 
such  a  result  were,  after  all,  possible. 

'Oh,  Miss  Tarrant,  you  will  convert  me  enough,  any 
way,'  said  the  young  man. 

'  Enough  ?     What  do  you  mean  by  enough  ?' 

4  Enough  to  make  me  terribly  unhappy.' 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  evidently  not  under- 
standing ;  but  she  tossed  him  a  retort  at  a  venture,  turned 
away,  and  took  her  course  homeward.  The  retort  was  that 
if  he  should  be  unhappy  it  would  serve  him  right — a  form 
of  words  that  committed  her  to  nothing.  As  he  returned 
to  Boston  he  saw  how  curious  he  should  be  to  learn  whether 
she  had  betrayed  him,  as  it  were,  to  Miss  Chancellor.  He 
might  learn  through  Mrs.  Luna ;  that  would  almost  reconcile 
him  to  going  to  see  her  again.  Olive  would  mention  it  in 
writing  to  her  sister,  and  Adeline  would  repeat  the  complaint. 
Perhaps  she  herself  would  even  make  him  a  scene  about  it ; 
that  would  be,  for  him,  part  of  the  unhappiness  he  had 
foretold  to  Verena  Tarrant. 


XXVI. 

'MRS.  HENRY  BURRAGE,  at  home  Wednesday  evening, 
March  26th,  at  half-past  nine  o'clock.'  It  was  in  con- 
sequence of  having  received  a  card  with  these  words 
inscribed  upon  it  that  Basil  Ransom  presented  himself,  on 
the  evening  she  had  designated,  at  the  house  of  a  lady  he 
had  never  heard  of  before.  The  account  of  the  relation  of 
effect  to  cause  is  not  complete,  however,  unless  I  mention 
that  the  card  bore,  furthermore,  in  the  left-hand  lower 
corner,  the  words  :  'An  Address  from  Miss  Verena  Tarrant.' 
He  had  an  idea  (it  came  mainly  from  the  look  and  even  the 
odour  of  the  engraved  pasteboard),  that  Mrs.  Burrage  was  a 
member  of  the  fashionable  world,  and  it  was  with  consider- 
able surprise  that  he  found  himself  in  such  an  element. 
He  wondered  what  had  induced  a  denizen  of  that  fine  air 
to  send  him  an  invitation ;  then  he  said  to  himself  that, 
obviously,  Verena  Tarrant  had  simply  requested  that  this 
should  be  done.  Mrs.  Henry  Burrage,  whoever  she  might 
be,  had  asked  her  if  she  shouldn't  like  some  of  her  own 
friends  to  be  present,  and  she  had  said,  Oh  yes,  and 
mentioned  him  in  the  happy  group.  She  had  been  able  to 
give  Mrs.  Burrage  his  address,  for  had  it  not  been  contained 
in  the  short  letter  he  despatched  to  Monadnoc  Place  soon 
after  his  return  from  Boston,  in  which  he  thanked  Miss 
Tarrant  afresh  for  the  charming  hour  she  had  enabled  him 
to  spend  at  Cambridge  ?  She  had  not  answered  his  letter  at 
the  time,  but  Mrs.  Burrage's  card  was  a  very  good  answer. 
Such  a  missive  deserved  a  rejoinder,  and  it  was  by  way  of 
rejoinder  that  he  entered  the  street  car  which,  on  the 
evening  of  March  26th,  was  to  deposit  him  at  a  corner 
adjacent  to  Mrs.  Burrage's  dwelling.  He  almost  never 
went  to  evening  parties  (he  knew  scarcely  any  one  who 


xxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  247 

gave  them,  though  Mrs.  Luna  had  broken  him  in  a  little), 
and  he  was  sure  this  occasion  was  of  festive  intention,  would 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  nocturnal  '  exercises '  at 
Miss  Birdseye's;  but  he  would  have  exposed  himself  to 
almost  any  social  discomfort  in  order  to  see  Verena  Tarrant 
on  the  platform.  The  platform  it  evidently  was  to  be — 
private  if  not  public — since  one  was  admitted  by  a  ticket 
given  away  if  not  sold.  He  took  his  in  his  pocket,  quite 
ready  to  present  it  at  the  door.  It  would  take  some  time 
for  me  to  explain  the  contradiction  to  the  reader ;  but  Basil 
Ransom's  desire  to  be  present  at  one  of  Verena's  regular 
performances  was  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that  he 
detested  her  views  and  thought  the  whole  business  a  poor 
perversity.  He  understood  her  now  very  well  (since  his  visit 
to  Cambridge) ;  he  saw  she  was  honest  and  natural ;  she 
had  queer,  bad  lecture-blood  in  her  veins,  and  a  comically 
false  idea  of  the  aptitude  of  little  girls  for  conducting 
movements ;  but  her  enthusiasm  was  of  the  purest,  her 
illusions  had  a  fragrance,  and  so  far  as  the  mania  for  pro- 
ducing herself  personally  was  concerned,  it  had  been 
distilled  into  her  by  people  who  worked  her  for  ends  which 
to  Basil  Ransom  could  only  appear  insane.  She  was  a 
touching,  ingenuous  victim,  unconscious  of  the  pernicious 
forces  which  were  hurrying  her  to  her  ruin.  With  this  idea 
of  ruin  there  had  already  associated  itself  in  the  young 
man's  mind,  the  idea — a  good  deal  more  dim  and  incom- 
plete— of  rescue;  and  it  was  the  disposition  to  confirm 
himself  in  the  view  that  her  charm  was  her  own,  and 
her  fallacies,  her  absurdity,  a  mere  reflection  of  unlucky 
circumstance,  that  led  him  to  make  an  effort  to  behold  her 
in  the  position  in  which  he  could  least  bear  to  think  of  her. 
Such  a  glimpse  was  all  that  was  wanted  to  prove  to  him 
that  she  was  a  person  for  whom  he  might  open  an  unlimited 
credit  of  tender  compassion.  He  expected  to  suffer — to 
suffer  deliciously. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  Mrs.  Burrage's  threshold 
there  was  no  doubt  whatever  in  his  mind  that  he  was  in  the 
fashionable  world.  It  was  embodied  strikingly  in  the  stout, 
elderly,  ugly  lady,  dressed  in  a  brilliant  colour,  with  a 
twinkle  of  jewels  and  a  bosom  much  uncovered,  who  stood 


248  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvi. 

near  the  door  of  the  first  room,  and  with  whom  the  people 
passing  in  before  him  were  shaking  hands.  Ransom  made 
her  a  Mississippian  bow,  and  she  said  she  was  delighted  to 
see  him,  while  people  behind  him  pressed  him  forward. 
He  yielded  to  the  impulsion,  and  found  himself  in  a  great 
saloon,  amid  lights  and  flowers,  where  the  company  was 
dense,  and  there  were  more  twinkling,  smiling  ladies,  with 
uncovered  bosoms.  It  was  certainly  the  fashionable  world, 
for  there  was  no  one  there  whom  he  had  ever  seen  before. 
The  walls  of  the  room  were  covered  with  pictures — the  very 
ceiling  was  painted  and  framed.  The  people  pushed  each 
other  a  little,  edged  about,  advanced  and  retreated,  looking 
at  each  other  with  differing  faces — sometimes  blandly, 
unperceivingly,  sometimes  with  a  harshness  of  contempla- 
tion, a  kind  of  cruelty,  Ransom  thought ;  sometimes  with 
sudden  nods  and  grimaces,  inarticulate  murmurs,  followed 
by  a  quick  reaction,  a  sort  of  gloom.  He  was  now 
absolutely  certain  that  he  was  in  the  best  society.  He  was 
carried  further  and  further  forward,  and  saw  that  another 
room  stretched  beyond  the  one  he  had  entered,  in  which 
there  was  a  sort  of  little  stage,  covered  with  a  red  cloth, 
and  an  immense  collection  of  chairs,  arranged  in  rows.  He 
became  aware  that  people  looked  at  him,  as  well  as  at  each 
other,  rather  more,  indeed,  than  at  each  other,  and  he 
wondered  whether  it  were  very  visible  in  his  appearance  that 
his  being  there  was  a  kind  of  exception.  He  didn't  know  how 
much  his  head  looked  over  the  heads  of  others,  or  that  his 
brown  complexion,  fuliginous  eye,  and  straight  black  hair, 
the  leonine  fall  of  which  I  mentioned  in  the  first  pages  of 
this  .narrative,  gave  him  that  relief  which,  in  the  best  society, 
has  the  great  advantage  of  suggesting  a  topic.  But  there 
were  other  topics  besides,  as  was  proved  by  a  fragment  of 
conversation,  between  two  ladies,  which  reached  his  ear 
while  he  stood  rather  wistfully  wondering  where  Verena 
Tarrant  might  be. 

'Are  you  a  member?'   one  of  the  ladies  said  to  the 
other.     '  I  didn't  know  you  had  joined.' 

'  Oh,  I  haven't ;  nothing  would  induce  me.' 
1  That's  not  fair ;  you  have  all  the  fun  and  none  of  the 
responsibility.' 


xxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  249 

1  Oh,  the  fun — the  fun  !'  exclaimed  the  second  lady. 

'You  needn't  abuse  us,  or  I  will  never  invite  you,'  said 
the  first. 

'  Well,  I  thought  it  was  meant  to  be  improving ;  that's 
all  I  mean ;  very  good  for  the  mind.  Now,  this  woman 
to-night ;  isn't  she  from  Boston  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  believe  they  have  brought  her  on,  just  for  this.' 

'  Well,  you  must  be  pretty  desperate  when  you  have  got 
to  go  to  Boston  for  your  entertainment.' 

'  Well,  there's  a  similar  society  there,  and  I  never  heard 
of  their  sending  to  New  York.' 

'  Of  course  not,  they  think  they  have  got  everything. 
But  doesn't  it  make  your  life  a  burden,  thinking  what  you 
can  possibly  have?' 

'  Oh  dear,  no.  I  am  going  to  have  Professor  Gougen- 
heim — all  about  the  Talmud.  You  must  come.' 

*  Well,  I'll  come,'  said  the  second  lady ;  '  but  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  be  a  regular  member.' 

Whatever  the  mystic  circle  might  be,  Ransom  agreed 
with  the  second  lady  that  regular  membership  must  have 
terrors,  and  he  admired  her  independence  in  such  an 
artificial  world.  A  considerable  part  of  the  company  had 
now  directed  itself  to  the  further  apartment — people  had 
begun  to  occupy  the  chairs,  to  confront  the  empty  platform. 
He  reached  the  wide  doors,  and  saw  that  the  place  was  a 
spacious  music-room,  decorated  in  white  and  gold,  with  a 
polished  floor  and  marble  busts  of  composers,  on  brackets 
attached  to  the  delicate  panels.  He  forbore  to  enter,  how- 
ever, being  shy  about  taking  a  seat,  and  seeing  that  the 
ladies  were  arranging  themselves  first.  He  turned  back 
into  the  first  room,  to  wait  till  the  audience  had  massed 
itself,  conscious  that  even  if  he  were  behind  every  one  he 
should  be  able  to  make  a  long  neck ;  and  here,  suddenly, 
in  a  corner,  his  eyes  rested  upon  Olive  Chancellor.  She 
was  seated  a  little  apart,  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  and  she 
was  looking  straight  at  him ;  but  as  soon  as  she  perceived 
that  he  saw  her  she  dropped  her  eyes,  giving  no  sign  of 
recognition.  Ransom  hesitated  a  moment,  but  the  next  he 
went  straight  over  to  her.  It  had  been  in  his  mind  that  if 
Verena  Tarrant  was  there,  she  would  be  there ;  an  instinct 


250  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvi. 

told  him  that  Miss  Chancellor  would  not  allow  her  dear 
friend  to  come  to  New  York  without  her.  It  was  very 
possible  she  meant  to  *  cut '  him — especially  if  she  knew  of 
his  having  cut  her,  the  other  week,  in  Boston ;  but  it  was 
his  duty  to  take  for  granted  she  would  speak  to  him,  until 
the  contrary  should  be  definitely  proved.  Though  he  had 
seen  her  only  twice  he  remembered  well  how  acutely  shy 
she  was  capable  of  being,  and  he  thought  it  possible  one  of 
these  spasms  had  seized  her  at  the  present  time. 

When  he  stood  before  her  he  found  his  conjecture 
perfectly  just;  she  was  white  with  the  intensity  of  her  self- 
consciousness  ;  she  was  altogether  in  a  very  uncomfortable 
state.  She  made  no  response  to  his  offer  to  shake  hands 
with  her,  and  he  saw  that  she  would  never  go  through  that 
ceremony  again.  She  looked  up  at  him  when  he  spoke  to 
her,  and  her  lips  moved ;  but  her  face  was  intensely  grave 
and  her  eye  had  almost  a  feverish  light.  She  had  evidently 
got  into  her  corner  to  be  out  of  the  way ;  he  recognised  in 
her  the  air  of  an  interloper,  as  he  had  felt  it  in  himself. 
The  small  sofa  on  which  she  had  placed  herself  had  the 
form  to  which  the  French  give  the  name  of  causeuse  ;  there 
was  room  on  it  for  just  another  person,  and  Ransom  asked 
her,  with  a  cheerful  accent,  if  he  might  sit  down  beside  her. 
She  turned  towards  him  when  he  had  done  so,  turned 
everything  but  her  eyes,  and  opened  and  shut  her  fan  while 
she  waited  for  her  fit  of  diffidence  to  pass  away.  Ransom 
himself  did  not  wait ;  he  took  a  jocular  tone  about  their 
encounter,  asking  her  if  she  had  come  to  New  York  to 
rouse  the  people.  She  glanced  round  the  room ;  the 
backs  of  Mrs.  Burrage's  guests,  mainly,  were  presented  to 
them,  and  their  position  was  partly  masked  by  a  pyramid  of 
flowers  which  rose  from  a  pedestal  close  to  Olive's  end  of 
the  sofa  and  diffused  a  fragrance  in  the  air. 

'Do  you  call  these  the  "people"?'  she  asked. 

'I  haven't  the  least  idea.  I  don't  know  who  any  of 
them  are,  not  even  who  Mrs.  Henry  Burrage  is.  I  simply 
received  an  invitation.7 

Miss  Chancellor  gave  him  no  information  on  the  point 
he  had  mentioned  ;  she  only  said,  in  a  moment :  '  Do  you 
go  wherever  you  are  invited  ?' 


xxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  251 

'  Why,  I  go  if  I  think  I  may  find  you  there,'  the  young 
man  replied,  gallantly.  'My  card  mentioned  that  Miss 
Tarrant  would  give  an  address,  and  I  knew  that  wherever 
she  is  you  are  not  far  off.  I  have  heard  you  are  inseparable, 
from  Mrs.  Luna.' 

'Yes,  we  are  inseparable.  That  is  exactly  why  I  am 
here.' 

'  It's  the  fashionable  world,  then,  you  are  going  to  stir 
up.' 

Olive  remained  for  some  time  with  her  eyes  fastened  to 
the  floor;  then  she  flashed  them  up  at  her  interlocutor. 
*  It's  a  part  of  our  life  to  go  anywhere — to  carry  our  work 
where  it  seems  most  needed.  We  have  taught  ourselves  to 
stifle  repulsion,  distaste.' 

'  Oh,  I  think  this  is  very  amusing,'  said  Ransom.  '  It's 
a  beautiful  house,  and  there  are  some  very  pretty  faces. 
We  haven't  anything  so  brilliant  in  Mississippi.' 

To  everything  he  said  Olive  offered  at  first  a  momentary 
silence,  but  the  worst  of  her  shyness  was  apparently  leaving 
her. 

'  Are  you  successful  in  New  York  ?  do  you  like  it  ?'  she 
presently  asked,  uttering  the  inquiry  in  a  tone  of  infinite 
melancholy,  as  if  the  eternal  sense  of  duty  forced  it  from 
her  lips. 

'  Oh,  successful !  I  am  not  successful  as  you  and 
Miss  Tarrant  are;  for  (to  my  barbaric  eyes)  it  is  a  great 
sign  of  prosperity  to  be  the  heroines  of  an  occasion  like 
this.' 

'Do  I  look  like  the  heroine  of  an  occasion?'  asked 
Olive  Chancellor,  without  an  intention  of  humour,  but  with 
an  effect  that  was  almost  comical. 

'  You  would  if  you  didn't  hide  yourself  away.  Are  you 
not  going  into  the  other  room  to  hear  the  speech  ?  Every- 
thing is  prepared.' 

'  I  am  going  when  I  am  notified — when  I  am  invited. ' 

There  was  considerable  majesty  in  her  tone,  and  Ran- 
som saw  that  something  was  wrong,  that  she  felt  neglected. 
To  see  that  she  was  as  ticklish  with  others  as  she  had  been 
with  him  made  him  feel  forgiving,  and  there  was  in  his 
manner  a  perfect  disposition  to  forget  their  differences  as 


252  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvi. 

he  said,  '  Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  time ;  the  place  isn't  half 
full  yet.' 

She  made  no  direct  rejoinder  to  this,  but  she  asked  him 
about  his  mother  and  sisters,  what  news  he  received  from 
the  South.  'Have  they  any  happiness?'  she  inquired, 
rather  as  if  she  warned  him  to  take  care  not  to  pretend 
they  had.  He  neglected  her  warning  to  the  point  of  saying 
that  there  was  one  happiness  they  always  had — that  of 
having  learned  not  to  think  about  it  too  much,  and  to 
make  the  best  of  their  circumstances.  She  listened  to  this 
with  an  air  of  great  reserve,  and  apparently  thought  he  had 
wished  to  give  her  a  lesson ;  for  she  suddenly  broke  out, 
'  You  mean  that  you  have  traced  a  certain  line  for  them, 
and  that  that's  all  you  know  about  it !' 

Ransom  stared  at  her,  surprised ;  he  felt,  now,  that  she 
would  always  surprise  him.  '  Ah,  don't  be  rough  with  me,' 
he  said,  in  his  soft  Southern  voice ;  '  don't  you  remember 
how  you  knocked  me  about  when  I  called  on  you  in 
Boston?' 

1  You  hold  us  in  chains,  and  then,  when  we  writhe  in 
our  agony,  you  say  we  don't  behave  prettily  !'  These  words, 
which  did  not  lessen  Ransom's  wonderment,  were  the 
young  lady's  answer  to  his  deprecatory  speech.  She  saw 
that  he  was  honestly  bewildered  and  that  in  a  moment 
more  he  would  laugh  at  her,  as  he  had  done  a  year  and  a 
half  before  (she  remembered  it  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday); 
and  to  stop  that  off,  at  any  cost,  she  went  on  hurriedly — 
'  If  you  listen  to  Miss  Tarrant,  you  will  know  what  I  mean.' 

'Oh,  Miss  Tarrant— Miss  Tarrant!'  And  Basil 
Ransom's  laughter  came. 

She  had  not  escaped  that  mockery,  after  all,  and  she 
looked  at  him  sharply  now,  her  embarrassment  having  quite 
cleared  up.  'What  do  you  know  about  her?  What 
observation  have  you  had?' 

Ransom  met  her  eye,  and  for  a  moment  they  scrutinised 
each  other.  Did  she  know  of  his  interview  with  Verena  a 
month  before,  and  was  her  reserve  simply  the  wish  to  place 
on  him  the  burden  of  declaring  that  he  had  been  to  Boston 
since  they  last  met,  and  yet  had  not  called  in  Charles 
Street  ?  He  thought  there  was  suspicion  in  her  face ;  but 


xxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  253 

in  regard  to  Verena  she  would  always  be  suspicious.  If  he 
had  done  at  that  moment  just  what  would  gratify  him  he 
would  have  said  to  her  that  he  knew  a  great  deal  about 
Miss  Tarrant,  having  lately  had  a  long  walk  and  talk  with 
her;  but  he  checked  himself,  with  the  reflection  that  if 
Verena  had  not  betrayed  him  it  would  be  very  wrong  in 
him  to  betray  her.  The  sweetness  of  the  idea  that  she 
should  have  thought  the  episode  of  his  visit  to  Monadnoc 
Place  worth  placing  under  the  rose,  was  quenched  for  the 
moment  in  his  regret  at  not  being  able  to  let  his  disagree- 
able cousin  know  that  he  had  passed  her  over.  '  Don't  you 
remember  my  hearing  her  speak  that  night  at  Miss  Birds- 
eye's?'  he  said,  presently.  'And  I  met  her  the  next  day 
at  your  house,  you  know.' 

1  She  has  developed  greatly  since  then/  Olive  remarked 
drily;  and  Ransom  felt  sure  that  Verena  had  held  her 
tongue. 

At  this  moment  a  gentleman  made  his  way  through  the 
clusters  of  Mrs.  Burrage's  guests  and  presented  himself  to 
Olive.  '  If  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  take  my  arm  I 
will  find  a  good  seat  for  you  in  the  other  room.  It's 
getting  to  be  time  for  Miss  Tarrant  to  reveal  herself.  I 
have  been  taking  her  into  the  picture-room ;  there  were 
some  things  she  wanted  to  see.  She  is  with  my  mother 
now,'  he  added,  as  if  Miss  Chancellor's  grave  face  con- 
stituted a  sort  of  demand  for  an  explanation  of  her  friend's 
absence.  '  She  said  she  was  a  little  nervous ;  so  I  thought 
we  would  just  move  about.' 

'  It's  the  first  time  I  have  ever  heard  of  that ! '  said  Olive 
Chancellor,  preparing  to  surrender  herself  to  the  young 
man's  guidance.  He  told  her  that  he  had  reserved  the 
best  seat  for  her ;  it  was  evidently  his  desire  to  conciliate 
her,  to  treat  her  as  a  person  of  importance.  Before  leading 
her  away,  he  shook  hands  with  Ransom  and  remarked  that 
he  was  very  glad  to  see  him;  and  Ransom  saw  that  he 
must  be  the  master  of  the  house,  though  he  could  scarcely 
be  the  son  of  the  stout  lady  in  the  doorway.  He  was  a 
fresh,  pleasant,  handsome  young  man,  with  a  bright  friendly 
manner ;  he  recommended  Ransom  to  take  a  seat  in  the 
other  room,  without  delay ;  if  he  had  never  heard  Miss 


254  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvi. 

Tarrant  he  would  have  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  his 
life. 

'Oh,  Mr.  Ransom  only  comes  to  ventilate  his  pre- 
judices,' Miss  Chancellor  said,  as  she  turned  her  back  to 
her  kinsman.  He  shrank  from  pushing  into  the  front  of 
the  company,  which  was  now  rapidly  filling  the  music-room, 
and  contented  himself  with  lingering  in  the  doorway,  where 
several  gentlemen  were  stationed.  The  seats  were  all 
occupied ;  all,  that  is,  save  one,  towards  which  he  saw  Miss 
Chancellor  and  her  companion  direct  themselves,  squeezing 
and  edging  past  the  people  who  were  standing  up  against 
the  walls.  This  was  quite  in  front,  close  to  the  little 
platform ;  every  one  noticed  Olive  as  she  went,  and  Ran- 
som heard  a  gentleman  near  him  say  to  another — '  I  guess 
she's  one  of  the  same  kind.'  He  looked  for  Verena,  but 
she  was  apparently  keeping  out  of  sight.  Suddenly  he  felt 
himself  smartly  tapped  on  the  back,  and,  turning  round, 
perceived  Mrs.  Luna,  who  had  been  prodding  him  with  her 
fan. 


XXVII. 

'You  won't  speak  to  me  in  my  own  house — that  I  have 
almost  grown  used  to ;  but  if  you  are  going  to  pass  me  over 
in  public  I  think  you  might  give  me  warning  first.'  This 
was  only  her  archness,  and  he  knew  what  to  make  of  that 
now ;  she  was  dressed  in  yellow  and  looked  very  plump  and 
gay.  He  wondered  at  the  unerring  instinct  by  which  she 
had  discovered  his  exposed  quarter.  The  outer  room  was 
completely  empty;  she  had  come  in  at  the  further  door 
and  found  the  field  free  for  her  operations.  He  offered  to 
find  her  a  place  where  she  could  see  and  hear  Miss  Tarrant, 
to  get  her  a  chair  to  stand  on,  even,  if  she  wished  to  look 
over  the  heads  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  doorway;  a  proposal 
which  she  greeted  with  the  inquiry — *  Do  you  suppose  I 
came  here  for  the  sake  of  that  chatterbox  ?  haven't  I  told 
you  what  I  think  of  her?' 

'Well,  you  certainly  did  not  come  here  for  my  sake,' 
said  Ransom,  anticipating  this  insinuation ;  '  for  you 
couldn't  possibly  have  known  I  was  coming.' 

'I  guessed  it — a  presentiment  told  me!'  Mrs.  Luna 
declared;  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  searching, 
accusing  eyes.  'I  know  what  you  have  come  for,'  she 
cried  in  a  moment.  '  You  never  mentioned  to  me  that  you 
knew  Mrs.  Burrage  !' 

'  I  don't — I  never  had  heard  of  her  till  she  asked  me.' 
'  Then  why  in  the  world  did  she  ask  you  ?' 
Ransom  had  spoken  a  trifle  rashly ;  it  came  over  him, 
quickly,  that  there  were  reasons  why  he  had  better  not  have 
said   that.     But    almost   as   quickly   he   covered   up   his 
mistake.     '  I  suppose  your  sister  was  so  good  as  to  ask  for 
a  card  for  me.' 

'  My  sister  ?     My  grandmother !     I  know  how  Olive 


256  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvii. 

loves  you.  Mr.  Ransom,  you  are  very  deep.'  She  had 
drawn  him  well  into  the  room,  out  of  earshot  of  the  group 
in  the  doorway,  and  he  felt  that  if  she  should  be  able  to 
compass  her  wish  she  would  organise  a  little  entertainment 
for  herself,  in  the  outer  drawing-room,  in  opposition  to  Miss 
Tarrant's  address.  'Please  come  and  sit  down  here  a 
moment;  we  shall  be  quite  undisturbed.  I  have  some- 
thing very  particular  to  say  to  you/  She  led  the  way  to 
the  little  sofa  in  the  corner,  where  he  had  been  talking  with 
Olive  a  few  minutes  before,  and  he  accompanied  her,  with 
extreme  reluctance,  grudging  the  moments  that  he  should 
be  obliged  to  give  to  her.  He  had  quite  forgotten  that  he 
once  had  a  vision  of  spending  his  life  in  her  society,  and 
he  looked  at  his  watch  as  he  made  the  observation : 

'  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  losing  any  of  the  sport  in 
there,  you  know.' 

He  felt,  the  next  instant,  that  he  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that  either;  but  he  was  irritated,  disconcerted,  and  he 
couldn't  help  it.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  gallant  Missis- 
sippian  to  do  everything  a  lady  asked  him,  and  he  had  never, 
remarkable  as  it  may  appear,  been  in  the  position  of  finding 
such  a  request  so  incompatible  with  his  own  desires  as  now. 
It  was  a  new  predicament,  for  Mrs.  Luna  evidently  meant 
to  keep  him  if  she  could.  She  looked  round  the  room, 
more  and  more  pleased  at  their  having  it  to  themselves,  and 
for  the  moment  said  nothing  more  about  the  singularity  of 
his  being  there.  On  the  contrary,  she  became  freshly 
jocular,  remarked  that  now  they  had  got  hold  of  him  they 
wouldn't  easily  let  him  go,  they  would  make  him  entertain 
them,  induce  him  to  give  a  lecture — on  the  '  Lights  and 
Shadows  of  Southern  Life,'-  or  the  '  Social  Peculiarities  of 
Mississippi ' — before  the  Wednesday  Club. 

'  And  what  in  the  world  is  the  Wednesday  Club  ?  I  sup- 
pose it's  what  those  ladies  were  talking  about,'  Ransom  said. 

1 1  don't  know  your  ladies,  but  the  Wednesday  Club  is 
this  thing.  I  don't  mean  you  and  me  here  together,  but 
all  those  deluded  beings  in  the  other  room.  It  is  New 
York  trying  to  be  like  Boston.  It  is  the  culture,  the  good 
form,  of  the  metropolis.  You  might  not  think  it,  but  it  is. 
It's  the  '  quiet  set ' ;  they  are  quiet  enough ;  you  might 


xxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  257 

hear  a  pin  drop,  in  there.  Is  some  one  going  to  offer  up  a 
prayer?  How  happy  Olive  must  be,  to  be  taken  so  seri- 
ously !  They  form  an  association  for  meeting  at  each 
other's  houses,  every  week,  and  having  some  performance, 
or  some  paper  read,  or  some  subject  explained.  The  more 
dreary  it  is  and  the  more  fearful  the  subject,  the  more  they 
think  it  is  what  it  ought  to  be.  They  have  an  idea  this  is 
the  way  to  make  New  York  society  intellectual.  There's  a 
sumptuary  law — isn't  that  what  you  call  it? — about  suppers, 
and  they  restrict  themselves  to  a  kind  of  Spartan  broth. 
When  it's  made  by  their  French  cooks  it  isn't  bad.  Mrs. 
Burrage  is  one  of  the  principal  members  —  one  of  the 
founders,  I  believe ;  and  when  her  turn  has  come  round, 
formerly — it  comes  only  once  in  the  winter  for  each — I  am 
told  she  has  usually  had  very  good  music.  But  that  is 
thought  rather  a  base  evasion,  a  begging  of  the  question ; 
the  vulgar  set  can  easily  keep  up  with  them  on  music.  So 
Mrs.  Burrage  conceived  the  extraordinary  idea' — and  it  was 
wonderful  to  hear  how  Mrs.  Luna  pronounced  that  adjective 
— '  of  sending  on  to  Boston  for  that  girl.  It  was  her  son, 
of  course,  who  put  it  into  her  head ;  he  has  been  at  Cam- 
bridge for  some  years — that's  where  Verena  lived,  you  know 
— and  he  was  as  thick  with  her  as  you  please  out  there. 
Now  that  he  is  no  longer  there  it  suits  him  very  well  to 
have  her  here.  She  is  coming  on  a  visit  to  his  mother 
when  Olive  goes.  I  asked  them  to  stay  with  me,  but  Olive 
declined,  majestically ;  she  said  they  wished  to  be  in  some 
place  where  they  would  be  free  to  receive  'sympathising 
friends.'  So  they  are  staying  at  some  extraordinary  kind  of 
New  Jerusalem  boarding-house,  in  Tenth  Street;  Olive 
thinks  it's  her  duty  to  go  to  such  places.  I  was  greatly 
surprised  that  she  should  let  Verena  be  drawn  into  such  a 
worldly  crowd  as  this ;  but  she  told  me  they  had  made  up 
their  minds  not  to  let  any  occasion  slip,  that  they  could  sow 
the  seed  of  truth  in  drawing-rooms  as  well  as  in  workshops, 
and  that  if  a  single  person  was  brought  round  to  their  ideas 
they  should  have  been  justified  in  coming  on.  That's  what 
they  are  doing  in  there — sowing  the  seed;  but  you  shall 
not  be  the  one  that's  brought  round,  I  shall  take  care  of 
that.  Have  you  seen  my  delightful  sister  yet  ?  The  way 

s 


258  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvu. 

she  does  arrange  herself  when  she  wants  to  protest  against 
frills  !  She  looks  as  if  she  thought  it  pretty  barren  ground 
round  here,  now  she  has  come  to  see  it.  I  don't  think  she 
thinks  you  can  be  saved  in  a  French  dress,  anyhow.  I  must 
say  I  call  it  a  very  base  evasion  of  Mrs.  Burrage's,  producing 
Verena  Tarrant ;  it's  worse  than  the  meretricious  music. 
Why  didn't  she  honestly  send  for  a  ballerina  from  Niblo's 
— if  she  wanted  a  young  woman  capering  about  on  a  plat- 
form ?  They  don't  care  a  fig  about  poor  Olive's  ideas ;  it's 
only  because  Verena  has  strange  hair,  and  shiny  eyes,  and 
gets  herself  up  like  a  prestidigitator's  assistant.  I  have 
never  understood  how  Olive  can  reconcile  herself  to 
Verena's  really  low  style  of  dress.  I  suppose  it's  only 
because  her  clothes  are  so  fearfully  made.  You  look  as  if 
you  didn't  believe  me — but  I  assure  you  that  the  cut  is 
revolutionary ;  and  that's  a  salve  to  Olive's  conscience/ 

Ransom  was  surprised  to  hear  that  he  looked  as  if  he 
didn't  believe  her,  for  he  had  found  himself,  after  his  first 
uneasiness,  listening  with  considerable  interest  to  her 
account  of  the  circumstances  under  which  Miss  Tarrant  was 
visiting  New  York.  After  a  moment,  as  the  result  of  some 
private  reflection,  he  propounded  this  question :  '  Is  the 
son  of  the  lady  of  the  house  a  handsome  young  man,  very 
polite,  in  a  white  vest?' 

'  I  don't  know  the  colour  of  his  vest — but  he  has  a 
kind  of  fawning  manner.  Verena  judges  from  that  that  he 
is  in  love  with  her.' 

'  Perhaps  he  is,'  said  Ransom.  *  You  say  it  was  his 
idea  to  get  her  to  come  oa' 

'  Oh,  he  likes  to  flirt ;  that  is  highly  probable.' 

*  Perhaps  she  has  brought  him  round.' 

'Not  to  where  she  wants,  I  think.  The  property  is 
very  large ;  he  will  have  it  all  one  of  these  days.' 

'  Do  you  mean  she  wishes  to  impose  on  him  the  yoke 
of  matrimony  ?'  Ransom  asked,  with  Southern  languor. 

'  I  believe  she  thinks  matrimony  an  exploded  super- 
stition ;  but  there  is  here  and  there  a  case  in  which  it  is 
still  the  best  thing ;  when  the  gentleman's  name  happens 
to  be  Burrage  and  the  young  lady's  Tarrant  I  don't 
admire  '  Burrage '  so  much  myself.  But  I  think  she  would 


xxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  259 

have  captured  this  present  scion  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Olive. 
Olive  stands  between  them — she  wants  to  keep  her  in  the 
single  sisterhood ;  to  keep  her,  above  all,  for  herself.  Of 
course  she  won't  listen  to  her  marrying,  and  she  has  put  a 
spoke  in  the  wheel.  She  has  brought  her  to  New  York ; 
that  may  seem  against  what  I  say ;  but  the  girl  pulls  hard, 
she  has  to  humour  her,  to  give  her  her  head  sometimes,  to 
throw  something  overboard,  in  short,  to  save  the  rest.  You 
may  say,  as  regards  Mr.  Burrage,  that  it's  a  queer  taste  in  a 
gentleman  ;  but  there  is  no  arguing  about  that.  It's  queer 
taste  in  a  lady,  too ;  for  she  is  a  lady,  poor  Olive.  You 
can  see  that  to-night.  She  is  dressed  like  a  book-agent, 
but  she  is  more  distinguished  than  any  one  here.  Verena, 
beside  her,  looks  like  a  walking  advertisement.' 

When  Mrs.  Luna  paused,  Basil  Ransom  became  aware 
that,  in  the  other  room,  Verena's  address  had  begun ;  the 
sound  of  her  clear,  bright,  ringing  voice,  an  admirable  voice 
for  public  uses,  came  to  them  from  the  distance.  His 
eagerness  to  stand  where  he  could  hear  her  better,  and  see 
her  into  the  bargain,  made  him  start  in  his  place,  and  this 
movement  produced  an  outgush  of  mocking  laughter  on 
the  part  of  his  companion.  But  she  didn't  say — '  Go,  go, 
deluded  man,  I  take  pity  on  you  !'  she  only  remarked,  with 
light  impertinence,  that  he  surely  wouldn't  be  so  wanting  in 
gallantry  as  to  leave  a  lady  absolutely  alone  in  a  public 
place — it  was  so  Mrs.  Luna  was  pleased  to  qualify  Mrs. 
Burrage's  drawing-room — in  the  face  of  her  entreaty  that  he 
would  remain  with  her.  She  had  the  better  of  poor 
Ransom,  thanks  to  the  superstitions  of  Mississippi.  It  was 
in  his  simple  code  a  gross  rudeness  to  withdraw  from  con- 
versation with  a  lady  at  a  party  before  another  gentleman 
should  have  come  to  take  one's  place ;  it  was  to  inflict  on 
the  lady  a  kind  of  outrage.  The  other  gentlemen,  at  Mrs. 
Burrage's,  were  all  too  well  occupied;  there  was  not  the 
smallest  chance  of  one  of  them  coming  to  his  rescue.  He 
couldn't  leave  Mrs.  Luna,  and  yet  he  couldn't  stay  with  her 
and  lose  the  only  thing  he  had  come  so  much  out  of  his 
way  for.  '  Let  me  at  least  find  you  a  place  over  there,  in 
the  doorway.  You  can  stand  upon  a  chair — you  can  lean 
on  me.' 


260  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvii. 

'  Thank  you  very  much ;  I  would  much  rather  lean  on 
this  sofa.  And  I  am  much  too  tired  to  stand  on  chairs. 
Besides,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  that  either  Verena  or 
Olive  should  see  me  craning  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd — 
as  if  I  attached  the  smallest  importance  to  their  perora- 
tions !' 

1  It  isn't  time  for  the  peroration  yet/  Ransom  said,  with 
savage  dryness ;  and  he  sat  forward,  with  his  elbow  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  a  flush  in  his  sallow  cheek. 

'  It's  never  time  to  say  such  things  as  those,'  Mrs.  Luna 
remarked,  arranging  her  laces. 

' How  do  you  know  what  she  is  saying?' 

*  I  can  tell  by  the  way  her  voice  goes  up  and  down.     It 
sounds  so  silly.' 

Ransom  sat  there  five  minutes  longer — minutes  which, 
he  felt,  the  recording  angel  ought  to  write  down  to  his 
credit — and  asked  himself  how  Mrs.  Luna  could  be  such  a 
goose  as  not  to  see  that  she  was  making  him  hate  her. 
But  she  was  goose  enough  for  anything.  He  tried  to 
appear  indifferent,  and  it  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  whether 
the  Mississippi  system  could  be  right,  after  all.  It  certainly 
hadn't  foreseen  such  a  case  as  this.  '  It's  as  plain  as  day 
that  Mr.  Burrage  intends  to  marry  her — if  he  can,'  he  said 
in  a  minute ;  that  remark  being  better  calculated  than  any 
other  he  could  think  of  to  dissimulate  his  real  state  of 
mind. 

It  drew  no  rejoinder  from  his  companion,  and  after  an 
instant  he  turned  his  head  a  little  and  glanced  at  her. 
The  result  of  something  that  silently  passed  between  them 
was  to  make  her  say,  abruptly :  '  Mr.  Ransom,  my  sister 
never  sent  you  an  invitation  to  this  place.  Didn't  it  come 
from  Verena  Tarrant?' 

'  I  haven't  the  least  idea.' 

*  As  you  hadn't  the  least  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Burrage, 
who  else  could  it  have  come  from  ?' 

'If  it  came  from  Miss  Tarrant,  I  ought  at  least  to 
recognise  her  courtesy  by  listening  to  her.' 

'  If  you  rise  from  this  sofa  I  will  tell  Olive  what  I 
suspect.  She  will  be  perfectly  capable  of  carrying  Verena 
off  to  China — or  anywhere  out  of  your  reach.' 


XXVII. 


THE  BOSTONIANS.  261 


1  And  pray  what  is  it  you  suspect?' 
'  That  you  two  have  been  in  correspondence.' 
'  Tell  her  whatever  you  like,  Mrs.  Luna,7  said  the  young 
man,  with  the  grimness  of  resignation. 
'You  are  quite  unable  to  deny  it,  I  see.' 

*  I  never  contradict  a  lady.' 

'  We  shall  see  if  I  can't  make  you  tell  a  fib.  Haven't 
you  been  seeing  Miss  Tarrant,  too?' 

'  Where  should  I  have  seen  her  ?  I  can't  see  all  the  way 
to  Boston,  as  you  said  the  other  day.' 

*  Haven't  you  been  there — on  secret  visits?' 

Ransom  started  just  perceptibly ;  but  to  conceal  it,  the 
next  instant,  he  stood  up. 

'  They  wouldn't  be  secret  if  I  were  to  tell  you.' 

Looking  down  at  her  he  saw  that  her  words  were  a 
happy  hit,  not  the  result  of  definite  knowledge.  But  she 
appeared  to  him  vain,  egotistical,  grasping,  odious. 

'  Well,  I  shall  give  the  alarm,'  she  went  on ;  '  that  is,  I 
will  if  you  leave  me.  Is  that  the  way  a  Southern  gentle- 
man treats  a  lady?  Do  as  I  wish,  and  I  will  let  you  off!' 

'You  won't  let  me  off  from  staying  with  you.' 

'  Is  it  such  a  corvee  ?  I  never  heard  of  such  rudeness ! ' 
Mrs.  Luna  cried.  'All  the  same,  I  am  determined  to  keep 
you  if  I  can  !' 

Ransom  felt  that  she  must  be  in  the  wrong,  and  yet 
superficially  she  seemed  (and  it  was  quite  intolerable),  to 
have  right  on  her  side.  All  this  while  Verena's  golden 
voice,  with  her  words  indistinct,  solicited,  tantalised  his  ear. 
The  question  had  evidently  got  on  Mrs.  Luna's  nerves ; 
she  had  reached  that  point  of  feminine  embroilment  when 
a  woman  is  perverse  for  the  sake  of  perversity,  and  even 
with  a  clear  vision  of  bad  consequences. 

'  You  have  lost  your  head,'  he  relieved  himself  by  saying, 
as  he  looked  down  at  her. 

*  I  wish  you  would  go  and  get  me  some  tea.' 

'  You  say  that  only  to  embarrass  me.'  He  had  hardly 
spoken  when  a  great  sound  of  applause,  the  clapping  of 
many  hands,  and  the  cry  from  fifty  throats  of  'Brava,  brava  !' 
floated  in  and  died  away.  All  Ransom's  pulses  throbbed, 
he  flung  his  scruples  to  the  winds,  and  after  remarking  to 


262  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvii. 

Mrs.  Luna — still  with  all  due  ceremony — that  he  feared  he 
must  resign  himself  to  forfeiting  her  good  opinion,  turned 
his  back  upon  her  and  strode  away  to  the  open  door  of  the 
music-room.  '  Well,  I  have  never  been  so  insulted ! '  he 
heard  her  exclaim,  with  exceeding  sharpness,  as  he  left  her; 
and,  glancing  back  at  her,  as  he  took  up  his  position,  he 
saw  her  still  seated  on  her  sofa — alone  in  the  lamp-lit 
desert — with  her  eyes  making,  across  the  empty  space,  little 
vindictive  points.  Well,  she  could  come  where  he  was,  if 
she  wanted  him  so  much ;  he  would  support  her  on  an 
ottoman,  and  make  it  easy  for  her  to  see.  But  Mrs.  Luna 
was  uncompromising;  he  became  aware,  after  a  minute, 
that  she  had  withdrawn,  majestically,  from  the  place,  and 
he  did  not  see  her  again  that  evening. 


XXVIII. 

HE  could  command  the  music-room  very  well  from  where 
he  stood,  behind  a  thick  outer  fringe  of  intently  listening 
men.  Verena  Tarrant  was  erect  on  her  little  platform, 
dressed  in  white,  with  flowers  in  her  bosom.  The  red 
cloth  beneath  her  feet  looked  rich  in  the  light  of  lamps 
placed  on  high  pedestals  on  either  side  of  the  stage ;  it 
gave  her  figure  a  setting  of  colour  which  made  it  more 
pure  and  salient.  She  moved  freely  in  her  exposed  isola- 
tion, yet  with  great  sobriety  of  gesture ;  there  was  no  table 
in  front  of  her,  and  she  had  no  notes  in  her  hand,  but 
stood  there  like  an  actress  before  the  footlights,  or  a  singer 
spinning  vocal  sounds  to  a  silver  thread.  There  was  such 
a  risk  that  a  slim  provincial  girl,  pretending  to  fascinate  a 
couple  of  hundred  blase  New  Yorkers  by  simply  giving  them 
her  ideas,  would  fail  of  her  effect,  that  at  the  end  of  a  few 
moments  Basil  Ransom  became  aware  that  he  was  watching 
her  in  very  much  the  same  excited  way  as  if  she  had  been 
performing,  high  above  his  head,  on  the  trapeze.  Yet,  as 
one  listened,  it  was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  she  was 
in  perfect  possession  of  her  faculties,  her  subject,  her 
audience;  and  he  remembered  the  other  time  at  Miss 
Birdseye's  well  enough  to  be  able  to  measure  the  ground 
she  had  travelled  since  then.  This  exhibition  was  much 
more  complete,  her  manner  much  more  assured ;  she 
seemed  to  speak  and  survey  the  whole  place  from  a  much 
greater  height.  Her  voice,  too,  had  developed ;  he  had 
forgotten  how  beautiful  it  could  be  when  she  raised  it  to  its 
full  capacity.  Such  a  tone  as  that,  so  pure  and  rich,  and 
yet  so  young,  so  natural,  constituted  in  itself  a  talent ;  he 
didn't  wonder  that  they  had  made  a  fuss  about  her  at  the 
Female  Convention,  if  she  filled  their  hideous  hall  with 


264  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvin. 

such  a  music.  He  had  read,  of  old,  of  the  improvisatrice 
of  Italy,  and  this  was  a  chastened,  modern,  American 
version  of  the  type,  a  New  England  Corinna,  with  a  mission 
instead  of  a  lyre.  The  most  graceful  part  of  her  was  her 
earnestness,  the  way  her  delightful  eyes,  wandering  over  the 
'  fashionable  audience '  (before  which  she  was  so  perfectly 
unabashed),  as  if  she  wished  to  resolve  it  into  a  single 
sentient  personality,  seemed  to  say  that  the  only  thing  in 
life  she  cared  for  was  to  put  the  truth  into  a  form  that 
would  render  conviction  irresistible.  She  was  as  simple  as 
she  was  charming,  and  there  was  not  a  glance  or  motion 
that  did  not  seem  part  of  the  pure,  still-burning  passion 
that  animated  her.  She  had  indeed — it  was  manifest — 
reduced  the  company  to  unanimity  \  their  attention  was 
anything  but  languid ;  they  smiled  back  at  her  when  she 
smiled ;  they  were  noiseless,  motionless  when  she  was 
solemn ;  and  it  was  evident  that  the  entertainment  which 
Mrs.  Burrage  had  had  the  happy  thought  of  offering  to  her 
friends  would  be  memorable  in  the  annals  of  the  Wednesday 
Club.  It  was  agreeable  to  Basil  Ransom  to  think  that 
Verena  noticed  him  in  his  corner  ;  her  eyes  played  over 
her  listeners  so  freely  that  you  couldn't  say  they  rested  in 
one  place  more  than  another ;  nevertheless,  a  single  rapid 
ray,  which,  however,  didn't  in  the  least  strike  him  as  a 
deviation  from  her  ridiculous,  fantastic,  delightful  argument, 
let  him  know  that  he  had  been  missed  and  now  was  par- 
ticularly spoken  to.  This  glance  was  a  sufficient  assurance 
that  his  invitation  had  come  to  him  by  the  girl's  request. 
He  took  for  granted  the  matter  of  her  speech  was  ridiculous; 
how  could  it  help  being,  and  what  did  it  signify  if  it  was  ? 
She  was  none  the  less  charming  for  that,  and  the  moonshine 
she  had  been  plied  with  was  none  the  less  moonshine  for 
her  being  charming.  After  he  had  stood  there  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  became  conscious  that  he  should  not  be  able  to 
repeat  a  word  she  had  said ;  he  had  not  definitely  heeded 
it,  and  yet  he  had  not  lost  a  vibration  of  her  voice.  He 
had  discovered  Olive  Chancellor  by  this  time  ;  she  was  in 
the  front  row  of  chairs,  at  the  end,  on  the  left ;  her  back 
was  turned  to  him,  but  he  could  see  half  her  sharp  profile, 
bent  down  a  little  and  absolutely  motionless.  Even  across 


XXYIII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  265 

the  wide  interval  her  attitude  expressed  to  him  a  kind  of 
rapturous  stillness,  the  concentration  of  triumph.  There 
were  several  irrepressible  effusions  of  applause,  instantly 
self-checked,  but  Olive  never  looked  up,  at  the  loudest, 
and  such  a  calmness  as  that  could  only  be  the  result  of 
passionate  volition.  Success  was  in  the  air,  and  she  was 
tasting  it ;  she  tasted  it,  as  she  did  everything,  in  a  way  of 
her  own.  Success  for  Verena  was  success  for  her,  and 
Ransom  was  sure  that  the  only  thing  wanting  to  her  triumph 
was  that  he  should  have  been  placed  in  the  line  of  her 
vision,  so  that  she  might  enjoy  his  embarrassment  and  con- 
fusion, might  say  to  him,  in  one  of  her  dumb,  cold  flashes 
— '  Now  do  you  think  our  movement  is  not  a  force — now 
do  you  think  that  women  are  meant  to  be  slaves  ?'  Honestly, 
he  was  not  conscious  of  any  confusion ;  it  subverted  none 
of  his  heresies  to  perceive  that  Verena  Tarrant  had  even 
more  power  to  fix  his  attention  than  he  had  hitherto 
supposed.  It  was  fixed  in  a  way  it  had  not  been  yet, 
however,  by  his  at  last  understanding  her  speech,  feeling  it 
reach  his  inner  sense  through  the  impediment  of  mere 
dazzled  vision.  Certain  phrases  took  on  a  meaning  for  him 
— an  appeal  she  was  making  to  those  who  still  resisted  the 
beneficent  influence  of  the  truth.  They  appeared  to  be 
mocking,  cynical  men,  mainly ;  many  of  whom  were  such 
triflers  and  idlers,  so  heartless  and  brainless  that  it  didn't 
matter  much  what  they  thought  on  any  subject ;  if  the  old 
tyranny  needed  to  be  propped  up  by  them  it  showed  it  was 
in  a  pretty  bad  way.  But  there  were  others  whose  prejudice 
was  stronger  and  more  cultivated,  pretended  to  rest  upon  study 
and  argument.  To  those  she  wished  particularly  to  address 
herself;  she  wanted  to  waylay  them,  to  say,  'Look  here, 
you're  all  wrong ;  you'll  be  so  much  happier  when  I  have 
convinced  you.  Just  give  me  five  minutes,'  she  should  like 
to  say  ;  'just  sit  down  here  and  let  me  ask  a  simple  question. 
Do  you  think  any  state  of  society  can  come  to  good  that  is 
based  upon  an  organised  wrong?'  That  was  the  simple 
question  that  Verena  desired  to  propound,  and  Basil  smiled 
across  the  room  at  her  with  an  amused  tenderness  as  he 
gathered  that  she  conceived  it  to  be  a  poser.  He  didn't 
think  it  would  frighten  him  much  if  she  were  to  ask  him 


266  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvin. 

that,  and  he  would  sit  down  with  her  for  as  many  minutes 
as  she  liked. 

He,  of  course,  was  one  of  the  systematic  scoffers,  one  of 
those  to  whom  she  said — '  Do  you  know  how  you  strike 
me?  You  strike  me  as  men  who  are  starving  to  death 
while  they  have  a  cupboard  at  home,  all  full  of  bread  and 
meat  and  wine  ;  or  as  blind,  demented  beings  who  let 
themselves  be  cast  into  a  debtor's  prison,  while  in  their 
pocket  they  have  the  key  of  vaults  and  treasure -chests 
heaped  up  with  gold  and  silver.  The  meat  and  wine,  the 
gold  and  silver,'  Verena  went  on,  '  are  simply  the  suppressed 
and  wasted  force,  the  precious  sovereign  remedy,  of  which 
society  insanely  deprives  itself — the  genius,  the  intelligence, 
the  inspiration  of  women.  It  is  dying,  inch  by  inch,  in  the 
midst  of  old  superstitions  which  it  invokes  in  vain,  and  yet 
it  has  the  elixir  of  life  in  its  hands.  Let  it  drink  but  a  draught, 
and  it  will  bloom  once  more ;  it  will  be  refreshed,  radiant ;  it 
will  find  its  youth  again.  The  heart,  the  heart  is  cold,  and 
nothing  but  the  touch  of  woman  can  warm  it,  make  it  act.  We 
are  the  Heart  of  humanity,  and  let  us  have  the  courage  to 
insist  on  it !  The  public  life  of  the  world  will  move  in  the 
same  barren,  mechanical,  vicious  circle — the  circle  of  ego- 
tism, cruelty,  ferocity,  jealousy,  greed,  of  blind  striving  to  do 
things  only  for  some,  at  the  cost  of  others,  instead  of  trying 
to  do  everything  for  all.  All,  all  ?  Who  dares  to  say  "  all " 
when  we  are  not  there  ?  We  are  an  equal,  a  splendid,  an 
inestimable  part.  Try  us  and  you'll  see — you  will  wonder 
how,  without  us,  society  has  ever  dragged  itself  even  this 
distance — so  wretchedly  small  compared  with  what  it  might 
have  been — on  its  painful  earthly  pilgrimage.  That  is  what 
I  should  like  above  all  to  pour  into  the  ears  of  those  who 
still  hold  out,  who  stiffen  their  necks  and  repeat  hard, 
empty  formulas,  which .  are  as  dry  as  a  broken  gourd  that 
has  been  flung  away  in  the  desert.  I  would  take  them  by 
their  selfishness,  their  indolence,  their  interest.  I  am  not 
here  to  recriminate,  nor  to  deepen  the  gulf  that  already 
yawns  between  the  sexes,  and  I  don't  accept  the  doctrine 
that  they  are  natural  enemies,  since  my  plea  is  for  a  union 
far  more  intimate — provided  it  be  equal — than  any  that  the 
sages  and  philosophers  of  former  times  have  ever  dreamed 


xxviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  267 

of.  Therefore  I  shall  not  touch  upon  the  subject  of  men's 
being  most  easily  influenced  by  considerations  of  what  is 
most  agreeable  and  profitable  for  them;  I  shall  simply 
assume  that  they  are  so  influenced,  and  I  shall  say  to  them 
that  our  cause  would  long  ago  have  been  gained  if  their 
vision  were  not  so  dim,  so  veiled,  even  in  matters  in  which 
their  own  interests  are  concerned.  If  they  had  the  same 
quick  sight  as  women,  if  they  had  the  intelligence  of  the 
heart,  the  world  would  be  very  different  now ;  and  I  assure 
you  that  half  the  bitterness  of  our  lot  is  to  see  so  clearly 
and  not  to  be  able  to  do !  Good  gentlemen  all,  if  I  could 
make  you  believe  how  much  brighter  and  fairer  and  sweeter 
the  garden  of  life  would  be  for  you,  if  you  would  only  let 
us  help  you  to  keep  it  in  order  !  You  would  like  so  much 
better  to  walk  there,  and  you  would  find  grass  and  trees 
and  flowers  that  would  make  you  think  you  were  in  Eden. 
That  is  what  I  should  like  to  press  home  to  each  of  you, 
personally,  individually — to  give  him  the  vision  of  the  world 
as  it  hangs  perpetually  before  me,  redeemed,  transfigured, 
by  a  new  moral  tone.  There  would  be  generosity,  tender- 
ness, sympathy,  where  there  is  now  only  brute  force  and 
sordid  rivalry.  But  you  really  do  strike  me  as  stupid  even 
about  your  own  welfare !  Some  of  you  say  that  we  have 
already  all  the  influence  we  can  possibly  require,  and  talk 
as  if  we  ought  to  be  grateful  that  we  are  allowed  even  to 
breathe.  Pray,  who  shall  judge  what  we  require  if  not  we 
ourselves?  We  require  simply  freedom;  we  require  the 
lid  to  be  taken  off  the  box  in  which  we  have  been  kept  for 
centuries.  You  say  it's  a  very  comfortable,  cozy,  con- 
venient box,  with  nice  glass  sides,  so  that  we  can  see  out, 
and  that  all  that's  wanted  is  to  give  another  quiet  turn  to 
the  key.  That  is  very  easily  answered.  Good  gentlemen, 
you  have  never  been  in  the  box,  and  you  haven't  the  least 
idea  how  it  feels  !' 

The  historian  who  has  gathered  these  documents 
together  does  not  deem  it  necessary  to  give  a  larger 
specimen  of  Verena's  eloquence,  especially  as  Basil  Ran- 
som, through  whose  ears  we  are  listening  to  it,  arrived,  at 
this  point,  at  a  definite  conclusion.  He  had  taken  her 
measure  as  a  public  speaker,  judged  her  importance  in  the 


268  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XXVIIT. 

field  of  discussion,  the  cause  of  reform.  Her  speech,  in 
itself,  had  about  the  value  of  a  pretty  essay,  committed  to 
memory  and  delivered  by  a  bright  girl  at  an  'academy;' 
it  was  vague,  thin,  rambling,  a  tissue  of  generalities  that 
glittered  agreeably  enough  in  Mrs.  Burrage's  veiled  lamplight. 
From  any  serious  point  of  view  it  was  neither  worth 
answering  nor  worth  considering,  and  Basil  Ransom  made 
his  reflections  on  the  crazy  character  of  the  age  in  which 
such  a  performance  as  that  was  treated  as  an  intellectual 
effort,  a  contribution  to  a  question.  He  asked  himself 
what  either  he  or  any  one  else  would  think  of  it  if  Miss 
Chancellor — or  even  Mrs.  Luna — had  been  on  the  platform 
instead  of  the  actual  declaimer.  Nevertheless,  its  import- 
ance was  high,  and  consisted  precisely,  in  part,  of  the  fact 
that  the  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  Olive  or  of  Adeline. 
Its  importance  was  that  Verena  was  unspeakably  attractive, 
and  this  was  all  the  greater  for  him  in  the  light  of  the  fact, 
which  quietly  dawned  upon  him  as  he  stood  there,  that  he 
was  falling  in  love  with  her.  It  had  tapped  at  his  heart 
for  recognition,  and  before  he  could  hesitate  or  challenge, 
the  door  had  sprung  open  and  the  mansion  was  illuminated. 
He  gave  no  outward  sign ;  he  stood  gazing  as  at  a  picture ; 
but  the  room  wavered  before  his  eyes,  even  Verena's  figure 
danced  a  little.  This  did  not  make  the  sequel  of  her 
discourse  more  clear  to  him ;  her  meaning  faded  again  into 
the  agreeable  vague,  and  he  simply  felt  her  presence,  tasted 
her  voice.  Yet  the  act  of  reflection  was  not  suspended ; 
he  found  himself  rejoicing  that  she  was  so  weak  in  argument, 
so  inevitably  verbose.  The  idea  that  she  was  brilliant,  that 
she  counted  as  a  factor  only  because  the  public  mind  was 
in  a  muddle,  was  not  an  humiliation  but  a  delight  to  him ; 
it  was  a  proof  that  her  apostleship  was  all  nonsense,  the 
most  passing  of  fashions,  the  veriest  of  delusions,  and  that 
she  was  meant  for  something  divinely  different — for  privacy, 
for  him,  for  love.  He  took  no  measure  of  the  duration  of 
her  talk ;  he  only  knew,  when  it  was  over  and  succeeded 
by  a  clapping  of  hands,  an  immense  buzz  of  voices  and 
shuffling  of  chairs,  that  it  had  been  capitally  bad,  and  that 
her  personal  success,  wrapping  it  about  with  a  glamour  like 
the  silver  mist  that  surrounds  a  fountain,  was  such  as  to 


xxvm.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  269 

prevent  its  badness  from  being  a  cause  of  mortification  to 
her  lover.  The  company — such  of  it  as  did  not  imme- 
diately close  together  around  Verena — filed  away  into  the 
other  rooms,  bore  him  in  its  current  into  the  neighbourhood 
of  a  table  spread  for  supper,  where  he  looked  for  signs  of 
the  sumptuary  law  mentioned  to  him  by  Mrs.  Luna.  It 
appeared  to  be  embodied  mainly  in  the  glitter  of  crystal 
and  silver,  and  the  fresh  tints  of  mysterious  viands  and 
jellies,  which  looked  desirable  in  the  soft  circle  projected 
by  lace-fringed  lamps.  He  heard  the  popping  of  corks,  he 
felt  a  pressure  of  elbows,  a  thickening  of  the  crowd,  per- 
ceived that  he  was  glowered  at,  squeezed  against  the  table, 
by  contending  gentlemen  who  observed  that  he  usurped 
space,  was  neither  feeding  himself  nor  helping  others  to 
feed.  He  had  lost  sight  of  Verena ;  she  had  been  borne 
away  in  clouds  of  compliment;  but  he  found  himself 
thinking — almost  paternally — that  she  must  be  hungry 
after  so  much  chatter,  and  he  hoped  some  one  was  getting 
her  something  to  eat.  After  a  moment,  just  as  he  was 
edging  away,  for  his  own  opportunity  to  sup  much  better 
than  usual  was  not  what  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  this 
little  vision  was  suddenly  embodied — embodied  by  the 
appearance  of  Miss  Tarrant,  who  faced  him,  in  the  press, 
attached  to  the  arm  of  a  young  man  now  recognisable  to 
him  as  the  son  of  the  house — the  smiling,  fragrant  youth 
who  an  hour  before  had  interrupted  his  colloquy  with  Olive. 
He  was  leading  her  to  the  table,  while  people  made  way  for 
them,  covering  Verena  with  gratulations  of  word  and  look. 
Ransom  could  see  that,  according  to  a  phrase  which  came 
back  to  him  just  then,  oddly,  out  of  some  novel  or  poem  he 
had  read  of  old,  she  was  the  cynosure  of  every  eye.  She 
looked  beautiful,  and  they  were  a  beautiful  couple.  As 
soon  as  she  saw  him,  she  put  out  her  left  hand  to  him — the 
other  was  in  Mr.  Burrage's  arm — and  said :  *  Well,  don't 
you  think  it's  all  true?' 

'  No,  not  a  word  of  it ! '  Ransom  answered,  with  a  kind 
of  joyous  sincerity.  '  But  it  doesn't  make  any  difference.' 

'  Oh,  it  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  to  me ! '  Verena 
cried. 

'  I  mean  to  me.     I  don't  care  in  the  least  whether  I 


270  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvin. 

agree  with  you,'  Ransom  said,  looking  askance  at  young 
Mr.  Burrage,  who  had  detached  himself  and  was  getting 
something  for  Verena  to  eat. 

'  Ah,  well,  if  you  are  so  indifferent ! ' 

'  It's  not  because  I'm  indifferent !'  His  eyes  came  back 
to  her  own,  the  expression  of  which  had  changed  before 
they  quitted  them.  She  began  to  complain  to  her  com- 
panion, who  brought  her  something  very  dainty  on  a  plate, 
that  Mr.  Ransom  was  '  standing  out,'  that  he  was  about  the 
hardest  subject  she  had  encountered  yet.  Henry  Burrage 
smiled  upon  Ransom  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to  show  he 
remembered  having  already  spoken  to  him,  while  the 
Mississippian  said  to  himself  that  there  was  nothing  on  the 
face  of  it  to  make  it  strange  there  should  be  between  these 
fair,  successful  young  persons  some  such  question  of  love  or 
marriage  as  Mrs.  Luna  had  tattled  about.  Mr.  Burrage 
was  successful,  he  could  see  that  in  the  turn  of  an  eye ;  not 
perhaps  as  having  a  commanding  intellect  or  a  very  strong 
character,  but  as  being  rich,  polite,  handsome,  happy, 
amiable,  and  as  wearing  a  splendid  camellia  in  his  button- 
hole. And  that  he,  at  any  rate,  thought  Verena  had 
succeeded  was  proved  by  the  casual,  civil  tone,  and  the 
contented  distraction  of  eye,  with  which  he  exclaimed, 
'  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  were  not  moved  by  that !  It's 
my  opinion  that  Miss  Tarrant  will  carry  everything  before  her.' 
He  was  so  pleased  himself,  and  so  safe  in  his  conviction, 
that  it  didn't  matter  to  him  what  any  one  else  thought ; 
which  was,  after  all,  just  Basil  Ransom's  own  state  of  mind. 

'  Oh !  I  didn't  say  I  wasn't  moved,'  the  Mississippian 
remarked. 

1  Moved  the  wrong  way ! '  said  Verena.  l  Never  mind ; 
you'll  be  left  behind.' 

f  If  I  am,  you  will  come  back  to  console  me.' 

'Back?  I  shall  never  come  back!'  the  girl  replied, 
gaily. 

'You'll  be  the  very  first!'  Ransom  went  on,  feeling 
himself  now,  and  as  if  by  a  sudden  clearing  up  of  his 
spiritual  atmosphere,  no  longer  in  the  vein  for  making  the 
concessions  of  chivalry,  and  yet  conscious  that  his  words 
were  an  expression  of  homage. 


xxvui.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  271 

'  Oh,  I  call  that  presumptuous  1'  Mr.  Burrage  exclaimed, 
turning  away  to  get  a  glass  of  water  for  Verena,  who  had 
refused  to  accept  champagne,  mentioning  that  she  had 
never  drunk  any  in  her  life  and  that  she  associated  a  kind 
of  iniquity  with  it.  Olive  had  no  wine  in  her  house  (not 
that  Verena  gave  this  explanation),  but  her  father's  old 
madeira  and  a  little  claret ;  of  the  former  of  which  liquors 
Basil  Ransom  had  highly  approved  the  day  he  dined  with 
her. 

'Does  he  believe  in  all  those  lunacies?'  he  inquired, 
knowing  perfectly  what  to  think  about  the  charge  of  pre- 
sumption brought  by  Mr  Burrage. 

'Why,  he's  crazy  about  our  movement,'  Verena  re- 
sponded. '  He's  one  of  my  most  gratifying  converts.' 

'And  don't  you  despise  him  for  it?' 

'  Despise  him  ?  Why,  you  seem  to  think  I  swing  round 
pretty  often !' 

'  Well,  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  see  you  swing  round 
yet,'  Ransom  remarked,  in  a  tone  in  which  it  would  have 
appeared  to  Henry  Burrage,  had  he  heard  these  words,  that 
presumption  was  pushed  to  fatuity. 

On  Verena,  however,  they  produced  no  impression  that 
prevented  her  from  saying  simply,  without  the  least  rancour, 
'  Well,  if  you  expect  to  draw  me  back  five  hundred  years,  I 
hope  you  won't  tell  Miss  Birdseye.'  And  as  Ransom  did 
not  seize  immediately  the  reason  of  her  allusion,  she  went 
on,  *  You  know  she  is  convinced  it  will  be  just  the  other 
way.  I  went  to  see  her  after  you  had  been  at  Cambridge 
— almost  immediately.' 

'  Darling  old  lady — I  hope  she's  well/  the  young  man 
said. 

'  Well,  she's  tremendously  interested.' 

'She's  always  interested  in  something,  isn't  she?' 

'  Well,  this  time  it's  in  our  relations,  yours  and  mine,' 
Verena  replied,  in  a  tone  in  which  only  Verena  could  say  a 
thing  like  that.  '  You  ought  to  see  how  she  throws  herself 
into  them.  She  is  sure  it  will  all  work  round  for  your 
good.' 

'All  what,  Miss  Tarrant?'  Ransom  asked. 

'  Well,  what  I  told  her.     She  is  sure  you  are  going  to 


272  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvm. 

become  one  of  our  leaders,  that  you  are  very  gifted  for 
treating  great  questions  and  acting  on  masses  of  people, 
that  you  will  become  quite  enthusiastic  about  our  uprising, 
and  that  when  you  go  up  to  the  top  as  one  of  our  champions 
it  will  all  have  been  through  me.' 

Ransom  stood  there,  smiling  at  her;  the  dusky  glow  in 
his  eyes  expressed  a  softness  representing  no  prevision  of 
such  laurels,  but  which  testified  none  the  less  to  Verena's 
influence.  '  And  what  you  want  is  that  I  shouldn't  unde- 
ceive her?' 

'Well,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  hypocritical — if  you 
shouldn't  take  our  side ;  but  I  do  think  that  it  would  be 
sweet  if  the  dear  old  thing  could  just  cling  to  her  illusion. 
She  won't  live  so  very  long,  probably;  she  told  me  the  other 
day  she  was  ready  for  her  final  rest ;  so  it  wouldn't  interfere 
much  with  your  freedom.  She  feels  quite  romantic  about 
it — your  being  a  Southerner  and  all,  and  not  naturally  in 
sympathy  with  Boston  ideas,  and  your  meeting  her  that  way 
in  the  street  and  making  yourself  known  to  her.  She  won't 
believe  but  what  I  shall  move  you.' 

'  Don't  fear,  Miss  Tarrant,  she  shall  be  satisfied/  Ran- 
som said,  with  a  laugh  which  he  could  see  she  but  partially 
understood.  He  was  prevented  from  making  his  meaning 
more  clear  by  the  return  of  Mr.  Burrage,  bringing  not  only 
Verena's  glass  of  water  but  a  smooth-faced,  rosy,  smiling 
old  gentleman,  who  had  a  velvet  waistcoat,  and  thin  white 
hair,  brushed  effectively,  and  whom  he  introduced  to 
Verena  under  a  name  which  Ransom  recognised  as  that 
of  a  rich  and  venerable  citizen,  conspicuous  for  his  public 
spirit  and  his  large  almsgiving.  Ransom  had  lived  long 
enough  in  New  York  to  know  that  a  request  from  this 
ancient  worthy  to  be  made  known  to  Miss  Tarrant  would 
mark  her  for  the  approval  of  the  respectable,  stamp  her  as 
a  success  of  no  vulgar  sort ;  and  as  he  turned  away,  a  faint, 
inaudible  sigh  passed  his  lips,  dictated  by  the  sense  that  he 
himself  belonged  to  a  terribly  small  and  obscure  minority. 
He  turned  away  because,  as  we  know,  he  had  been  taught 
that  a  gentleman  talking  to  a  lady  must  always  do  that 
when  a  new  gentleman  is  presented ;  though  he  observed, 
looking  back,  after  a  minute,  that  young  Mr.  Burrage 


xxvin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  273 

evidently  had  no  intention  of  abdicating  in  favour  of  the 
eminent  philanthropist.  He  thought  he  had  better  go 
home ;  he  didn't  know  what  might  happen  at  such  a  party 
as  that,  nor  when  the  proceedings  might  be  supposed  to 
terminate ;  but  after  considering  it  a  minute  he  dismissed 
the  idea  that  there  was  a  chance  of  Verena's  speaking 
again.  If  he  was  a  little  vague  about  this,  however,  there 
was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to  the  obligation  he  was 
under  to  take  leave  first  of  Mrs.  Burrage.  He  wished  he 
knew  where  Verena  was  staying ;  he  wanted  to  see  her 
alone,  not  in  a  supper- room  crowded  with  millionaires. 
As  he  looked  about  for  the  hostess  it  occurred  to  him  that 
she  would  know,  and  that  if  he  were  able  to  quench  a 
certain  shyness  sufficiently  to  ask  her,  she  would  tell  him. 
Having  satisfied  himself  presently  that  she  was  not  in  the 
supper-room,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  parlours,  where 
the  company  now  was  much  diminished.  He  looked  again 
into  the  music-room,  tenanted  only  by  half-a-dozen  couples, 
who  were  cultivating  privacy  among  the  empty  chairs,  and 
here  he  perceived  Mrs.  Burrage  sitting  in  conversation  with 
Olive  Chancellor  (the  latter,  apparently,  had  not  moved 
from  her  place),  before  the  deserted  scene  of  Verena's 
triumph.  His  search  had  been  so  little  for  Olive  that  at 
the  sight  of  her  he  faltered  a  moment;  then  he  pulled 
himself  together,  advancing  with  a  consciousness  of  the 
Mississippi  manner.  He  felt  Olive's  eyes  receiving  him ; 
she  looked  at  him  as  if  it  was  just  the  hope  that  she 
shouldn't  meet  him  again  that  had  made  her  remain  where 
she  was.  Mrs.  Burrage  got  up,  as  he  bade  her  good-night, 
and  Olive  followed  her  example. 

*  So  glad  you  were  able  to  come.  Wonderful  creature, 
isn't  she  ?  She  can  do  anything  she  wants.' 

These  words  from  the  elder  lady  Ransom  received  at 
first  with  a  reserve  which,  as  he  trusted,  suggested  extreme 
respect ;  and  it  was  a  fact  that  his  silence  had  a  kind  of 
Southern  solemnity  in  it.  Then  he  said,  in  a  tone  equally 
expressive  of  great  deliberation  : 

'  Yes,  madam,  I  think  I  never  was  present  at  an  exhibi- 
tion, an  entertainment  of  any  kind,  which  held  me  more 
completely  under  the  charm.' 


274  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvin. 

'Delighted  you  liked  it  I  didn't  know  what  in  the 
world  to  have,  and  this  has  proved  an  inspiration — for  me 
as  well  as  for  Miss  Tarrant.  Miss  Chancellor  has  been 
telling  me  how  they  have  worked  together ;  it's  really  quite 
beautiful.  Miss  Chancellor  is  Miss  Tarrant's  great  friend 
and  colleague.  Miss  Tarrant  assures  me  that  she  couldn't 
do  anything  without  her.'  After  which  explanation,  turning 
to  Olive,  Mrs.  Burrage  murmured :  '  Let  me  introduce 
Mr.  introduce  Mr.  ' 

But  she  had  forgotten  poor  Ransom's  name,  forgotten 
who  had  asked  her  for  a  card  for  him ;  and,  perceiving  it, 
he  came  to  her  rescue  with  the  observation  that  he  was  a 
kind  of  cousin  of  Miss  Olive's,  if  she  didn't  repudiate  him, 
and  that  he  knew  what  a  tremendous  partnership  existed 
between  the  two  young  ladies.  '  When  I  applauded  I  was 
applauding  the  firm — that  is,  you  too,'  he  said,  smiling,  to 
his  kinswoman. 

'Your  applause?  I  confess  I  don't  understand  it,' 
Olive  replied,  with  much  promptitude. 

'Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  myself!' 

'  Oh  yes,  of  course   I   know ;    that's  why — that's  why 

'      And  this  further   speech  of   Mrs.   Burrage's,   in 

reference  to  the  relationship  between  the  young  man  and 
her  companion,  faded  also  into  vagueness.  She  had  been 
on  the  point  of  saying  it  was  the  reason  why  he  was  in  her 
house ;  but  she  had  bethought  herself  in  time  that  this 
ought  to  pass  as  a  matter  of  course.  Basil  Ransom  could 
see  she  was  a  woman  who  could  carry  off  an  awkwardness 
like  that,  and  he  considered  her  with  a  sense  of  her  im- 
portance. She  had  a  brisk,  familiar,  slightly  impatient  way, 
and  if  she  had  not  spoken  so  fast,  and  had  more  of  the 
softness  of  the  Southern  matron,  she  would  have  reminded 
him  of  a  certain  type  of  woman  he  had  seen  of  old,  before 
the  changes  in  his  own  part  of  the  world — the  clever, 
capable,  hospitable  proprietress,  widowed  or  unmarried,  of 
a  big  plantation  carried  on  by  herself.  '  If  you  are  her 
cousin,  do  take  Miss  Chancellor  to  have  some  supper — 
instead  of  going  away,'  she  went  on,  with  her  infelicitous 
readiness. 

At  this  Olive  instantly  seated  herself  again. 


xxviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  275 

'  I  am  much  obliged  to  you ;  I  never  touch  supper.  I 
shall  not  leave  this  room — I  like  it/ 

'Then  let  me  send  you  something — or  let  Mr. , 

your  cousin,  remain  with  you.' 

Olive  looked  at  Mrs.  Burrage  with  a  strange  beseeching- 
ness,  '  I  am  very  tired,  I  must  rest.  These  occasions  leave 
me  exhausted.' 

*  Ah  yes,  I  can  imagine  that.  Well,  then,  you  shall  be 
quite  quiet — I  shall  come  back  to  you.'  And  with  a  smile 
of  farewell  for  Basil  Ransom,  Mrs.  Burrage  moved  away. 

Basil  lingered  a  moment,  though  he  saw  that  Olive 
wished  to  get  rid  of  him.  '  I  won't  disturb  you  further 
than  to  ask  you  a  single  question,'  he  said.  '  Where  are 
you  staying?  I  want  to  come  and  see  Miss  Tarrant.  I 
don't  say  I  want  to  come  and  see  you,  because  I  have  an 
idea  that  it  would  give  you  no  pleasure.'  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  obtain  their  address  from  Mrs.  Luna 
— he  only  knew  vaguely  it  was  Tenth  Street ;  much  as  he 
had  displeased  her  she  couldn't  refuse  him  that;  but 
suddenly  the  greater  simplicity  and  frankness  of  applying 
directly  to  Olive,  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  to  brave  her, 
recommended  itself.  He  couldn't,  of  course,  call  upon 
Verena  without  her  knowing  it,  and  she  might  as  well  make 
her  protest  (since  he  proposed  to  pay  no  heed  to  it),  sooner 
as  later.  He  had  seen  nothing,  personally,  of  their  life 
together,  but  it  had  come  over  him  that  what  Miss  Chan- 
cellor most  disliked  in  him  (had  she  not,  on  the  very 
threshold  of  their  acquaintance,  had  a  sort  of  mystical 
foreboding  of  it  ?)  was  the  possibility  that  he  would  inter- 
fere. It  was  quite  on  the  cards  that  he  might ;  yet  it  was 
decent,  all  the  same,  to  ask  her  rather  than  any  one  else. 
It  was  better  that  his  interference  should  be  accompanied 
with  all  the  forms  of  chivalry. 

Olive  took  no  notice  of  his  remark  as  to  how  she  herself 
might  be  affected  by  his  visit ;  but  she  asked  in  a  moment 
why  he  should  think  it  necessary  to  call  on  Miss  Tarrant. 
*  You  know  you  are  not  in  sympathy,'  she  added,  in  a  tone 
which  contained  a  really  touching  element  of  entreaty  that 
he  would  not  even  pretend  to  prove  he  was. 

I  know  not  whether  Basil  was  touched,  but  he  said, 


276  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxvin. 

with  every  appearance  of  a  conciliatory  purpose — '  I  wish 
to  thank  her  for  all  the  interesting  information  she  has 
given  me  this  evening.' 

'  If  you  think  it  generous  to  come  and  scoff  at  her,  of 
course  she  has  no  defence ;  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that.' 

1  Dear  Miss  Chancellor,  if  you  are  not  a  defence — a 
battery  of  many  guns  ! '  Ransom  exclaimed. 

*  Well,  she  at  least  is  not  mine ! '  Olive  returned,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet  She  looked  round  her  as  if  she  were  really 
pressed  too  hard,  panting  like  a  hunted  creature. 

'Your  defence  is  your  certain  immunity  from  attack. 
Perhaps  if  you  won't  tell  me  where  you  are  staying,  you 
will  kindly  ask  Miss  Tarrant  herself  to  do  so.  Would  she 
send  me  a  word  on  a  card  ? ' 

'We  are  in  West  Tenth  Street,'  Olive  said;  and  she 
gave  the  number.  '  Of  course  you  are  free  to  come.' 

'  Of  course  I  am  !  Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  But  I  am 
greatly  obliged  to  you  for  the  information.  I  will  ask  her 
to  come  out,  so  that  you  won't  see  us.'  And  he  turned 
away,  with  the  sense  that  it  was  really  insufferable,  her 
attempt  always  to  give  him  the  air  of  being  in  the  wrong. 
If  that  was  the  kind  of  spirit  in  which  women  were  going 
to  act  when  they  had  more  power ! 


XXIX. 

MRS.  LUNA  was  early  in  the  field  the  next  day,  and  her 
sister  wondered  to  what  she  owed  the  honour  of  a  visit 
from  her  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  very 
soon  saw,  when  Adeline  asked  her  whether  it  had  been 
she  who  procured  for  Basil  Ransom  an  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Burrage's. 

'  Me — why  in  the  world  should  it  have  been  me  ?'  Olive 
asked,  feeling  something  of  a  pang  at  the  implication  that  it 
had  not  been  Adeline,  as  she  supposed. 

'  I  didn't  know — but  you  took  him  up  so.' 

'Why,  Adeline  Luna,  when  did  I  ever ?'  Miss  Chan- 
cellor exclaimed,  staring  and  intensely  grave. 

'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  forgotten  how  you 
brought  him  on  to  see  you,  a  year  and  a  half  ago  ! ' 

'  I  didn't  bring  him  on — I  said  if  he  happened  to  be 
there.' 

'  Yes,  I  remember  how  it  was  :  he  did  happen,  and  then 
you  happened  to  hate  him,  and  tried  to  get  out  of  it.' 

Miss  Chancellor  saw,  I  say,  why  Adeline  had  come  to 
her  at  the  hour  she  knew  she  was  always  writing  letters, 
after  having  given  her  all  the  attention  that  was  necessary 
the  day  before;  she  had  come  simply  to  make  herself 
disagreeable,  as  Olive  knew,  of  old,  the  spirit  sometimes 
moved  her  irresistibly  to  do.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Adeline 
had  been  disagreeable  enough  in  not  having  beguiled  Basil 
Ransom  into  a  marriage,  according  to  that  memorable 
calculation  of  probabilities  in  which  she  indulged  (with  a 
licence  that  she  scarcely  liked  definitely  to  recall),  when  the 
pair  made  acquaintance  under  her  eyes  in  Charles  Street, 
and  Mrs.  Luna  seemed  to  take  to  him  as  much  as  she 
herself  did  little.  She  would  gladly  have  accepted  him  as 


278  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxix. 

a  brother-in-law,  for  the  harm  such  a  relation  could  do  one 
was  limited  and  definite  ;  whereas  in  his  general  capacity  of 
being  at  large  in  her  life  the  ability  of  the  young  Missis- 
sippian  to  injure  her  seemed  somehow  immense.  '  I  wrote 
to  him — that  time — for  a  perfectly  definite  reason,'  she  said. 
'  I  thought  mother  would  have  liked  us  to  know  him.  But 
it  was  a  mistake.' 

I  How  do  you  know  it  was  a  mistake  ?     Mother  would 
have  liked  him,  I  dare  say.' 

'  I  mean  my  acting  as  I  did ;  it  was  a  theory  of  duty 
which  I  allowed  to  press  me  too  much.  I  always  do. 
Duty  should  be  obvious;  one  shouldn't  hunt  round  for  it.' 

'Was  it  very  obvious  when  it  brought  you  on  here?' 
asked  Mrs.  Luna,  who  was  distinctly  out  of  humour. 

Olive  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  toe  of  her  shoe.  '  I 
had  an  idea  that  you  would  have  married  him  by  this  time,' 
she  presently  remarked. 

'  Marry  him  yourself,  my  dear  !  What  put  such  an  idea 
into  your  head?' 

'You  wrote  to  me  at  first  so  much  about  him.  You 
told  me  he  was  tremendously  attentive,  and  that  you  liked 
him.' 

'  His  state  of  mind  is  one  thing  and  mine  is  another. 
How  can  I  marry  every  man  that  hangs  about  me — that 
dogs  my  footsteps  ?  I  might  as  well  become  a  Mormon  at 
once  !'  Mrs.  Luna  delivered  herself  of  this  argument  with 
a  certain  charitable  air,  as  if  her  sister  could  not  be  expected 
to  understand  such  a  situation  by  her  own  light. 

Olive  waived  the  discussion,  and  simply  said  :  '  I  took 
for  granted  you  had  got  him  the  invitation.' 

*  I,  my  dear  ?     That  would  be  quite  at  variance  with  my 
attitude  of  discouragement.' 

'  Then  she  simply  sent  it  herself.' 
4  Whom  do  you  mean  by  "  she  "  ?' 

*  Mrs.  Burrage,  of  course.' 

I 1  thought  that  you  might  mean  Verena,'  said   Mrs. 
Luna,  casually. 

'  Verena — to  him  ?    Why  in  the  world ?'    And  Olive 

gave  the  cold  glare  with  which  her  sister  was  familiar. 
4  Why  in  the  world  not — since  she  knows  him  ?' 


xxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  279 

'  She  had  seen  him  twice  in  her  life  before  last  night, 
when  she  met  him  for  the  third  time  and  spoke  to  him.' 

*  Did  she  tell  you  that  ?' 

'  She  tells  me  everything.' 

'Are  you  very  sure?' 

'Adeline  Luna,  what  do  you  mean?'  Miss  Chancellor 
murmured. 

'  Are  you  very  sure  that  last  night  was  only  the  third 
time?'  Mrs.  Luna  went  on. 

Olive  threw  back  her  head  and  swept  her  sister  from  her 
bonnet  to  her  lowest  flounce.  '  You  have  no  right  to  hint 
at  such  a  thing  as  that  unless  you  know  ! ' 

'Oh,  I  know — I  know,  at  any  rate,  more  than  you  do  !' 
And  then  Mrs.  Luna,  sitting  with  her  sister,  much  with-, 
drawn,  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  big,  hot,  faded  parlour 
of  the  boarding-house  in  Tenth  Street,  where  there  was  a 
rug  before  the  chimney  representing  a  Newfoundland  dog 
saving  a  child  from  drowning,  and  a  row  of  chromo-litho- 
graphs  on  the  walls,  imparted  to  her  the  impression  she  had 
received  the  evening  before — the  impression  of  Basil 
Ransom's  keen  curiosity  about  Verena  Tarrant.  Verena 
must  have  asked  Mrs.  Burrage  to  send  him  a  card,  and 
asked  it  without  mentioning,  the  fact  to  Olive — for  wouldn't 
Olive  certainly  have  remembered  it  ?  It  was  no  use  her 
saying  that  Mrs.  Burrage  might  have  sent  it  of  her  own 
movement,  because  she  wasn't  aware  of  his  existence,  and 
why  should  she  be  ?  Basil  Ransom  himself  had  told  her 
he  didn't  know  Mrs.  Burrage.  Mrs.  Luna  knew  whom  he 
knew  and  whom  he  didn't,  or  at  least  the  sort  of  people, 
and  they  were  not  the  sort  that  belonged  to  the  Wednesday 
Club.  That  was  one  reason  why  she  didn't  care  about  him 
for  any  intimate  relation — that  he  didn't  seem  to  have  any 
taste  for  making  nice  friends.  Olive  would  know  what  her 
taste  was  in  this  respect,  though  it  wasn't  that  young 
woman's  own  any  more  than  his.  It  was  positive  that  the 
suggestion  about  the  card  could  only  have  come  from 
Verena.  At  any  rate  Olive  could  easily  ask,  or  if  she  was 
afraid  of  her  telling  a  fib  she  could  ask  Mrs.  Burrage.  It 
was  true  Mrs.  Burrage  might  have  been  put  on  her  guard 
by  Verena,  and  would  perhaps  invent  some  other  account 


28o  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxix. 

of  the  matter ;  therefore  Olive  had  better  just  believe  what 
she  believed,  that  Verena  had  secured  his  presence  at  the 
party  and  had  had  private 'reasons  for  doing  so.  It  is  to 
be  feared  that  Ransom's  remark  to  Mrs.  Luna  the  night 
before  about  her  having  lost  her  head  was  near  to  the 
mark ;  for  if  she  had  not  been  blinded  by  her  rancour  she 
would  have  guessed  the  horror  with  which  she  inspired  her 
sister  when  she  spoke  in  that  off-hand  way  of  Verena's  lying 
and  Mrs.  Burrage's  lying.  Did  people  lie  like  that  in  Mrs. 
Luna's  set?  It  was  Olive's  plan  of  life  not  to  lie,  and 
attributing  a  similar  disposition  to  people  she  liked,  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  believe  that  Verena  had  had  the 
intention  of  deceiving  her.  Mrs.  Luna,  in  a  calmer  hour, 
might  also  have  divined  that  Olive  would  make  her  private 
comments  on  the  strange  story  of  Basil  Ransom's  having 
made  up  to  Verena  out  of  pique  at  Adeline's  rebuff;  for 
this  was  the  account  of  the  matter  that  she  now  offered  to 
Miss  Chancellor.  Olive  did  two  things :  she  listened 
intently  and  eagerly,  judging  there  was  distinct  danger  in 
the  air  (which,  however,  she  had  not  wanted  Mrs.  Luna  to 
tell  her,  having  perceived  it  for  herself  the  night  before) ; 
and  she  saw  that  poor  Adeline  was  fabricating  fearfully,  that 
the  'rebuff'  was  altogether  an  invention.  Mr.  Ransom  was 
evidently  preoccupied  with  Verena,  but  he  had  not  needed 
Mrs.  Luna's  cruelty  to  make  him  so.  So  Olive  maintained 
an  attitude  of  great  reserve ;  she  did  not  take  upon  herself 
to  announce  that  her  own  version  was  that  Adeline,  for 
reasons  absolutely  imperceptible  to  others,  had  tried  to 
catch  Basil  Ransom,  had  failed  in  her  attempt,  and,  furious 
at  seeing  Verena  preferred  to  a  person  of  her  importance 
(Olive  remembered  the  spreta  injuria  format),  now  wished 
to  do  both  him  and  the  girl  an  ill  turn.  This  would  be 
accomplished  if  she  could  induce  Olive  to  interfere.  Miss 
Chancellor  was  conscious  of  an  abundant  readiness  to 
interfere,  but  it  was  not  because  she  cared  for  Adeline's 
mortification.  I  am  not  sure,  even,  that  she  did  not  think 
her  fiasco  but  another  illustration  of  her  sister's  general 
uselessness,  and  rather  despise  her  for  it ;  being  perfectly 
able  at  once  to  hold  that  nothing  is  baser  than  the  effort  to 
entrap  a  man,  and  to  think  it  very  ignoble  to  have  to 


xxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  281 

renounce  it  because  you  can't.  Olive  kept  these  reflections 
to  herself,  but  she  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  her  sister  that 
she  didn't  see  where  the  '  pique '  came  in.  How  could  it 
hurt  Adeline  that  he  should  turn  his  attention  to  Verena  ? 
What  was  Verena  to  her  ? 

'Why,  Olive  Chancellor,  how  can  you  ask?'  Mrs.  Luna 
boldly  responded.  'Isn't  Verena  everything  to  you,  and 
aren't  you  everything  to  me,  and  wouldn't  an  attempt — a 
successful  one — to  take  Verena  away  from  you  knock  you 
up  fearfully,  and  shouldn't  I  suffer,  as  you  know  I  suffer,  by 
sympathy?' 

I  have  said  that  it  was  Miss  Chancellor's  plan  of  life  not 
to  lie,  but  such  a  plan  was  compatible  with  a  kind  of  con- 
sideration for  the  truth  which  led  her  to  shrink  from 
producing  it  on  poor  occasions.  So  she  didn't  say,  '  Dear 
me,  Adeline,  what  humbug !  you  know  you  hate  Verena 
and  would  be  very  glad  if  she  were  drowned  !'  She  only 
said,  '  Well,  I  see ;  but  it's  very  roundabout.'  What  she  did 
see  was  that  Mrs.  Luna  was  eager  to  help  her  to  stop  off 
Basil  Ransom  from  '  making  head,'  as  the  phrase  was ;  and 
the  fact  that  her  motive  was  spite,  and  not  tenderness  for 
the  Bostonians,  would  not  make  her  assistance  less 
welcome  if  the  danger  were  real.  She  herself  had  a  nervous 
dread,  but  she  had  that  about  everything;  still,  Adeline 
had  perhaps  seen  something,  and  what  in  the  world  did  she 
mean  by  her  reference  to  Verena's  having  had  secret  meet- 
ings ?  When  pressed  on  this  point,  Mrs.  Luna  could  only 
say  that  she  didn't  pretend  to  give  definite  information,  and 
she  wasn't  a  spy  anyway,  but  that  the  night  before  he  had 
positively  flaunted  in  her  face  his  admiration  for  the  girl, 
his  enthusiasm  for  her  way  of  standing  up  there.  Of  course 
he  hated  her  ideas,  but  he  was  quite  conceited  enough  to 
think  she  would  give  them  up.  Perhaps  it  was  all  directed 
at  her — as  if  she  cared  !  It  would  depend  a  good  deal  on 
the  girl  herself;  certainly,  if  there  was  any  likelihood  of 
Verena's  being  affected,  she  should  advise  Olive  to  look 
out.  She  knew  best  what  to  do;  it  was  only  Adeline's 
duty  to  give  her  the  benefit  of  her  own  impression,  whether 
she  was  thanked  for  it  or  not.  She  only  wished  to  put  her 
on  her  guard,  and  it  was  just  like  Olive  to  receive  such 


282  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxix. 

information   so  coldly;    she   was  the    most  disappointing 
woman  she  knew. 

Miss  Chancellor's  coldness  was  not  diminished  by  this 
rebuke;  for  it  had  come  over  her  that,  after  all,  she  had 
never  opened  herself  at  that  rate  to  Adeline,  had  never  let 
her  see  the  real  intensity  of  her  desire  to  keep  the  sort  of 
danger  there  was  now  a  question  of  away  from  Verena, 
had  given  her  no  warrant  for  regarding  her  as  her  friend's 
keeper ;  so  that  she  was  taken  aback  by  the  flatness  of  Mrs. 
Luna's  assumption  that  she  was  ready  to  enter  into  a  con- 
spiracy to  circumvent  and  frustrate  the  girl.  Olive  put 
on  all  her  majesty  to  dispel  this  impression,  and  if  she 
could  not  help  being  aware  that  she  made  Mrs.  Luna  still 
angrier,  on  the  whole,  than  at  first,  she  felt  that  she  would 
much  rather  disappoint  her  than  give  herself  away  to  her — 
especially  as  she  Was  intensely  eager  to  profit  by  her 
warning  ! 


XXX. 

MRS.  LUNA  would  have  been  still  less  satisfied  with  the 
manner  in  which  Olive  received  her  proffered  assistance 
had  she  known  how  many  confidences  that  reticent  young 
woman  might  have  made  her  in  return.  Olive's  whole  life 
now  was  a  matter  for  whispered  communications ;  she  felt 
this  herself,  as  she  sought  the  privacy  of  her  own  apartment 
after  her  interview  with  her  sister.  She  had  for  the  moment 
time  to  think ;  Verena  having  gone  out  with  Mr.  Burrage, 
who  had  made  an  appointment  the  night  before  to  call  for 
her  to  drive  at  that  early  hour.  They  had  other  engage- 
ments in  the  afternoon — the  principal  of  which  was  to  meet 
a  group  of  earnest  people  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  great 
local  promoters.  Olive  would  whisk  Verena  off  to  these 
appointments  directly  after  lunch ;  she  flattered  herself  that 
she  could  arrange  matters  so  that  there  would  not  be  half 
an  hour  in  the  day  during  which  Basil  Ransom,  compla- 
cently calling,  would  find  the  Bostonians  in  the  house.  She 
had  had  this  well  in  mind  when,  at  Mrs.  Burrage's,  she  was 
driven  to  give  him  their  address ;  and  she  had  had  it  also 
in  mind  that  she  would  ask  Verena,  as  a  special  favour,  to 
accompany  her  back  to  Boston  on  the  next  day  but  one, 
which  was  the  morning  of  the  morrow.  There  had  been 
considerable  talk  of  her  staying  a  few  days  with  Mrs. 
Burrage — staying  on  after  her  own  departure ;  but  Verena 
backed  out  of  it  spontaneously,  seeing  how  the  idea  worried 
her  friend.  Olive  had  accepted  the  sacrifice,  and  their 
visit  to  New  York  was  now  cut  down,  in  intention,  to  four 
days,  one  of  which,  the  moment  she  perceived  whither  Basil 
Ransom  was  tending,  Miss  Chancellor  promised  herself 
also  to  suppress.  She  had  not  mentioned  that  to  Verena 
yet ;  she  hesitated  a  little,  having  a  slightly  bad  conscience 


284  THE  BOSTONIANS. 


about  the  concessions  she  had  already  obtained  from  her 
friend.  Verena  made  such  concessions  with  a  generosity 
which  caused  one's  heart  to  ache  for  admiration,  even  while 
one  asked  for  them ;  and  never  once  had  Olive  known  her 
to  demand  the  smallest  credit  for  any  virtue  she  showed  in 
this  way,  or  to  bargain  for  an  instant  about  any  effort  she 
made  to  oblige.  She  had  been  delighted  with  the  idea  of 
spending  a  week  under  Mrs.  Burrage's  roof;  she  had  said, 
too,  that  she  believed  her  mother  would  die  happy  (not 
that  there  was  the  least  prospect  of  Mrs.  Tarrant's  dying),  if 
she  could  hear  of  her  having  such  an  experience  as  that ; 
and  yet,  perceiving  how  solemn  Olive  looked  about  it,  how 
she  blanched  and  brooded  at  the  prospect,  she  had  offered 
to  give  it  up,  with  a  smile  sweeter,  if  possible,  than  any 
that  had  ever  sat  in  her  eyes.  Olive  knew  what  that  meant 
for  her,  knew  what  a  power  of  enjoyment  she  still  had,  in 
spite  of  the  tension  of  their  common  purpose,  their  vital 
work,  which  had  now,  as  they  equally  felt,  passed  into  the 
stage  of  realisation,  of  fruition ;  and  that  is  why  her 
conscience  rather  pricked  her  for  consenting  to  this  further 
act  of  renunciation,  especially  as  their  position  seemed  really 
so  secure,  on  the  part  of  one  who  had  already  given  herself 
away  so  sublimely. 

Secure  as  their  position  might  be,  Olive  called  herself  a 
blind  idiot  for  having,  in  spite  of  all  her  first  shrinkings, 
agreed  to  bring  Verena  to  New  York.  Verena  had  jumped 
at  the  invitation,  the  very  unexpectedness  of  which  on  Mrs. 
Burrage's  part — it  was  such  an  odd  idea  to  have  come  to  a 
mere  worldling — carried  a  kind  of  persuasion  with  it. 
Olive's  immediate  sentiment  had  been  an  instinctive  general 
fear;  but,  later,  she  had  dismissed  that  as  unworthy;  she 
had  decided  (and  such  a  decision  was  nothing  new),  that 
where  their  mission  was  concerned  they  ought  to  face 
everything.  Such  an  opportunity  would  contribute  too 
much  to  Verena's  reputation  and  authority  to  justify  a 
refusal  at  the  bidding  of  apprehensions  which  were  after 
all  only  vague.  Olive's  specific  terrors  and  dangers  had  by 
this  time  very  much  blown  over;  Basil  Ransom  had  given 
no  sign  of  life  for  ages,  and  Henry  Burrage  had  certainly 
got  his  quietus  before  they  went  to  Europe.  If  it  had 


xxx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  285 

occurred  to  his  mother  that  she  might  convert  Verena  into 
the  animating  principle  of  a  big  soire'e,  she  was  at  least 
acting  in  good  faith,  for  it  could  be  no  more  her  wish  to-day 
that  he  should  marry  Selah  Tarrant's  daughter  than  it  was 
her  wish  a  year  before.  And  then  they  should  do  some 
good  to  the  benighted,  the  most  benighted,  the  fashionable 
benighted ;  they  should  perhaps  make  them  furious — there 
was  always  some  good  in  that  Lastly,  Olive  was  conscious 
of  a  personal  temptation  in  the  matter;  she  was  not  in- 
sensible to  the  pleasure  of  appearing  in  a  distinguished 
New  York  circle  as  a  representative  woman,  an  important 
Bostonian,  the  prompter,  colleague,  associate  of  one  of  the 
most  original  girls  of  the  time.  Basil  Ransom  was  the 
person  she  had  least  expected  to  meet  at  Mrs.  Burrage's ; 
it  had  been  her  belief  that  they  might  easily  spend  four 
days  in  a  city  of  more  than  a  million  of  inhabitants  without 
that  disagreeable  accident  But  it  had  occurred ;  nothing 
was  wanting  to  make  it  seem  serious ;  and,  setting  her 
teeth,  she  shook  herself,  morally,  hard,  for  having  fallen 
into  the  trap  of  fate.  Well,  she  would  scramble  out,  with 
only  a  scare,  probably.  Henry  Burrage  was  very  attentive, 
but  somehow  she  didn't  fear  him  now;  and  it  was  only 
natural  he  should  feel  that  he  couldn't  be  polite  enough, 
after  they  had  consented  to  be  exploited  in  that  worldly 
way  by  his  mother.  The  other  danger  was  the  worst ;  the 
palpitation  of  her  strange  dread,  the  night  of  Miss  Birdseye's 
party,  came  back  to  her.  Mr.  Burrage  seemed,  indeed,  a 
protection;  she  reflected,  with  relief,  that  it  had  been 
arranged  that  after  taking  Verena  to  drive  in  the  Park  and 
see  the  Museum  of  Art  in  the  morning,  they  should  in  the 
evening  dine  with  him  at  Delmonico's  (he  was  to  invite 
another  gentleman),  and  go  afterwards  to  the  German  opera. 
Olive  had  kept  all  this  to  herself,  as  I  have  said ;  revealing 
to  her  sister  neither  the  vividness  of  her  prevision  that  Basil 
Ransom  would  look  blank  when  he  came  down  to  Tenth 
Street  and  learned  they  had  flitted,  nor  the  eagerness  of  her 
desire  just  to  find  herself  once  more  in  the  Boston  train. 
It  had  been  only  this  prevision  that  sustained  her  when 
she  gave  Mr.  Ransom  their  number. 

Verena  came  to  her  room  shortly  before  luncheon,  to  let 


286  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxx. 

her  know  she  had  returned;  and  while  they  sat  there, 
waiting  to  stop  their  ears  when  the  gong  announcing  the 
repast  was  beaten,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  by  a  negro  in  a 
white  jacket,  she  narrated  to  her  friend  her  adventures  with 
Mr.  Burrage — expatiated  on  the  beauty  of  the  park,  the 
splendour  and  interest  of  the  Museum,  the  wonder  of  the 
young  man's  acquaintance  with  everything  it  contained,  the 
swiftness  of  his  horses,  the  softness  of  his  English  cart,  the 
pleasure  of  rolling  at  that  pace  over  roads  as  firm  as  marble, 
the  entertainment  he  promised  them  for  the  evening.  Olive 
listened  in  serious  silence;  she  saw  Verena  was  quite 
carried  away ;  of  course  she  hadn't  gone  so  far  with  her 
without  knowing  that  phase. 

*  Did  Mr.  Burrage  try  to  make  love  to  you  ? '  Miss 
Chancellor  inquired  at  last,  without  a  smile. 

Verena  had  taken  off  her  hat  to  arrange  her  feather,  and 
as  she  placed  it  on  her  head  again,  her  uplifted  arms 
making  a  frame  for  her  face,  she  said :  '  Yes,  I  suppose  it 
was  meant  for  love.' 

Olive  waited  for  her  to  tell  more,  to  tell  how  she  had 
treated  him,  kept  him  in  his  place,  made  him  feel  that  that 
question  was  over  long  ago ;  but  as  Verena  gave  her  no 
farther  information  she  did  not  insist,  conscious  as  she 
always  was  that  in  such  a  relation  as  theirs  there  should  be 
a  great  respect  on  either  side  for  the  liberty  of  each.  She 
had  never  yet  infringed  on  Verena's,  and  of  course  she 
wouldn't  begin  now.  Moreover,  with  the  request  that  she 
meant  presently  to  make  of  her  she  felt  that  she  must  be 
discreet.  She  wondered  whether  Henry  Burrage  were  really 
going  to  begin  again ;  whether  his  mother  had  only  been 
acting  in  his  interest  in  getting  them  to  come  on.  Certainly, 
the  bright  spot  in  such  a  prospect  was  that  if  she  listened  to 
him  she  couldn't  listen  to  Basil  Ransom ;  and  he  had  told 
Olive  herself  last  night,  when  he  put  them  into  their  carriage, 
that  he  hoped  to  prove  to  her  yet  that  he  had  come  round 
to  her  gospel.  But  the  old'  sickness  stole  upon  her  again, 
the  faintness  of  discouragement,  as  she  asked  herself  why  in 
the  name  of  pity  Verena  should  listen  to  any  one  at  all  but 
Olive  Chancellor.  Again  it  came  over  her,  when  she  saw 
the  brightness,  the  happy  look,  the  girl  brought  back,  as  it 


xxx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  287 

had  done  in  the  earlier  months,  that  the  great  trouble  was 
that  weak  spot  of  Verena's,  that  sole  infirmity  and  subtle 
flaw,  which  she  had  expressed  to  her  very  soon  after  they 
began  to  live  together,  in  saying  (she  remembered  it  through 
the  ineffaceable  impression  made  by  her  friend's  avowal), 
'  I'll  tell  you  what  is  the  matter  with  you — you  don't  dislike 
men  as  a  class  !'  Verena  had  replied  on  this  occasion, 
'Well,  no,  I  don't  dislike  them  when  they  are  pleasant!' 
As  if  organised  atrociousness  could  ever  be  pleasant !  Olive 
disliked  them  most  when  they  were  least  unpleasant.  After 
a  little,  at  present,  she  remarked,  referring  to  Henry  Burrage : 
{ It  is  not  right  of  him,  not  decent,  after  your  making  him 
feel  how,  while  he  was  at  Cambridge,  he  wearied  you, 
tormented  you.' 

'Oh,  I  didn't  show  anything,'  said  Verena,  gaily.  'I 
am  learning  to  dissimulate,'  she  added  in  a  moment.  '  I 
suppose  you  have  to  as  you  go  along.  I  pretend  not  to 
notice.' 

At  this  moment  the  gong  sounded  for  luncheon,  and  the 
two  young  women  covered  up  their  ears,  face  to  face, 
Verena  with  her  quick  smile,  Olive  with  her  pale  patience. 
When  they  could  hear  themselves  speak,  the  latter  said 
abruptly  : 

'  How  did  Mrs.  Burrage  come  to  invite  Mr.  Ransom  to 
her  party?  He  told  Adeline  he  had  never  seen  her  before.' 

'  Oh,  I  asked  her  to  send  him  an  invitation — after  she 
had  written  to  me,  to  thank  me,  when  it  was  definitely 
settled  we  should  come  on.  She  asked  me  in  her  letter  if 
there  were  any  friends  of  mine  in  the  city  to  whom  I  should 
like  her  to  send  cards,  and  I  mentioned  Mr.  Ransom.' 

Verena  spoke  without  a  single  instant's  hesitation,  and 
the  only  sign  of  embarrassment  she  gave  was  that  she  got 
up  from  her  chair,  passing  in  this  manner  a  little  out  of 
Olive's  scrutiny.  It  was  easy  for  her  not  to  falter,  because 
she  was  glad  of  the  chance.  She  wanted  to  be  very  simple 
in  all  her  relations  with  her  friend,  and  of  course  it  was  not 
simple  so  soon  as  she  began  to  keep  things  back.  She 
could  at  any  rate  keep  back  as  little  as  possible,  and  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  making  up  for  a  dereliction  when  she 
answered  Olive's  inquiry  so  promptly. 


288  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxx. 

*  You  never  told  me  of  that,'  Miss  Chancellor  remarked, 
in  a  low  tone. 

*  I  didn't  want  to.     I  know  you  don't  like  him,  and  I 
thought  it  would  give  you  pain.     Yet  I  wanted  him  to  be 
there — I  wanted  him  to  hear.' 

'What  does  it  matter — why  should  you  care  about 
him?' 

'  Well,  because  he  is  so  awfully  opposed ! ' 

'  How  do  you  know  that,  Verena?' 

At  this  point  Verena  began  to  hesitate.  It  was  not, 
after  all,  so  easy  to  keep  back  only  a  little ;  it  appeared 
rather  as  if  one  must  either  tell  everything  or  hide  every- 
thing. The  former  course  had  already  presented  itself  to 
her  as  unduly  harsh ;  it  was  because  it  seemed  so  that  she 
had  ended  by  keeping  the  incident  of  Basil  Ransom's  visit 
to  Monadnoc  Place  buried  in  unspoken,  in  unspeakable, 
considerations,  the  only  secret  she  had  in  the  world — the 
only  thing  that  was  all  her  own.  She  was  so  glad  to  say 
what  she  could  without  betraying  herself  that  it  was  only 
after  she  had  spoken  that  she  perceived  there  was  a  danger 
of  Olive's  pushing  the  inquiry  to  the  point  where,  to  defend 
herself  as  it  were,  she  should  be  obliged  to  practise  a  posi- 
tive deception ;  and  she  was  conscious  at  the  same  time 
that  the  moment  her  secret  was  threatened  it  became 
dearer  to  her.  She  began  to  pray  silently  that  Olive  might 
not  push ;  for  it  would  be  odious,  it  would  be  impossible, 
to  defend  herself  by  a  lie.  Meanwhile,  however,  she  had  to 
answer,  and  the  way  she  answered  was  by  exclaiming,  much 
more  quickly  than  the  reflections  I  note  might  have 
appeared  to  permit,  '  Well,  if  you  can't  tell  from  his  appear- 
ance !  He's  the  type  of  the  reactionary.' 

Verena  went  to  the  toilet-glass  to  see  that  she  had  put 
on  her  hat  properly,  and  Olive  slowly  got  up,  in  the  manner 
of  a  person  not  in  the  least  eager  for  food.  '  Let  him  react 
as  he  likes — for  heaven's  sake  don't  mind  him  ! '  That  was 
Miss  Chancellor's  rejoinder,  and  Verena  felt  that  it  didn't 
say  all  that  was  in  her  mind.  She  wished  she  would  come 
down  to  luncheon,  for  she,  at  least,  was  honestly  hungry. 
She  even  suspected  Olive  had  an  idea  she  was  afraid  to 
express,  such  distress  it  would  bring  with  it.  '  Well,  you 


xxx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  289 

know,  Verena,  this  isn't  our  real  life — it  isn't  our  work,' 
Olive  went  on. 

'  Well,  no,  it  isn't,  certainly,'  said  Verena,  not  pretending 
at  first  that  she  did  not  know  what  Olive  meant.  In  a 
moment,  however,  she  added,  *  Do  you  refer  to  this  social 
intercourse  with  Mr.  Burrage?' 

*  Not  to  that  only.'  Then  Olive  asked  abruptly,  looking 
at  her,  '  How  did  you  know  his  address  ?' 

'His  address?' 

'  Mr.  Ransom's — to  enable  Mrs.  Burrage  to  invite  him  ? ' 

They  stood  for  a  moment  interchanging  a  gaze.  '  It  was 
in  a  letter  I  got  from  him.' 

At  these  words  there  came  into  Olive's  face  an  expres- 
sion which  made  her  companion  cross  over  to  her  directly 
and  take  her  by  the  hand.  But  the  tone  was  different  from 
what  Verena  expected  when  she  said,  with  cold  surprise : 
'  Oh,  you  are  in  correspondence  ! '  It  showed  an  immense 
effort  of  self-control. 

'  He  wrote  to  me  once — I  never  told  you/  Verena  re- 
joined, smiling.  She  felt  that  her  friend's  strange,  uneasy 
eyes  searched  very  far ;  a  little  more  and  they  would  go  to 
the  very  bottom.  Well,  they  might  go  if  they  would ;  she 
didn't,  after  all,  care  so  much  about  her  secret  as  that. 
For  the  moment,  however,  Verena  did  not  learn  what  Olive 
had  discovered,  inasmuch  as  she  only  remarked  presently 
that  it  was  really  time  to  go  down.  As  they  descended  the 
staircase  she  put  her  arm  into  Miss  Chancellor's  and 
perceived  that  she  was  trembling. 

Of  course  there  were  plenty  of  people  in  New  York 
interested  in  the  uprising,  and  Olive  had  made  appoint- 
ments, in  advance,  which  filled  the  whole  afternoon. 
Everybody  wanted  to  meet  them,  and  wanted  everybody 
else  to  do  so,  and  Verena  saw  they  could  easily  have  quite 
a  vogue,  if  they  only  chose  to  stay  and  work  that  vein. 
Very  likely,  as  Olive  said,  it  wasn't  their  real  life,  and 
people  didn't  seem  to  have  such  a  grip  of  the  movement  as 
they  had  in  Boston ;  but  there  was  something  in  the  air 
that  carried  one  along,  and  a  sense  of  vastness  and  variety, 
of  the  infinite  possibilities  of  a  great  city,  which — Verena 
hardly  knew  whether  she  ought  to  confess  it  to  herself — 


290  THE  BOSTONIANS. 


might  in  the  end  make  up  for  the  want  of  the  Boston 
earnestness.  Certainly,  the  people  seemed  very  much 
alive,  and  there  was  no  other  place  where  so  many  cheering 
reports  could  flow  in,  owing  to  the  number  of  electric 
feelers  that  stretched  away  everywhere.  The  principal 
centre  appeared  to  be  Mrs.  Croucher's,  on  Fifty -sixth 
Street,  where  there  was  an  informal  gathering  of  sym- 
pathisers who  didn't  seem  as  if  they  could  forgive  her  when 
they  learned  that  she  had  been  speaking  the  night  before 
in  a  circle  in  which  none  of  them  were  acquainted.  Cer- 
tainly, they  were  very  different  from  the  group  she  had 
addressed  at  Mrs.  Burrage's,  and  Verena  heaved  a  thin, 
private  sigh,  expressive  of  some  helplessness,  as  she  thought 
what  a  big,  complicated  world  it  was,  and  how  it  evidently 
contained  a  little  of  everything.  There  was  a  general 
demand  that  she  should  repeat  her  address  in  a  more 
congenial  atmosphere;  to  which  she  replied  that  Olive 
made  her  engagements  for  her,  and  that  as  the  address  had 
been  intended  just  to  lead  people  on,  perhaps  she  would 
think  Mrs.  Croucher's  friends  had  reached  a  higher  point. 
She  was  as  cautious  as  this  because  she  saw  that  Olive  was 
now  just  straining  to  get  out  of  the  city ;  she  didn't  want  to 
say  anything  that  would  tie  them.  When  she  felt  her 
trembling  that  way  before  luncheon  it  made  her  quite  sick 
to  realise  how  much  her  friend  was  wrapped  up  in  her — 
how  terribly  she  would  suffer  from  the  least  deviation. 
After  they  had  started  for  their  round  of  engagements  the 
very  first  thing  Verena  spoke  of  in  the  carriage  (Olive  had 
taken  one,  in  her  liberal  way,  for  the  whole  time),  was  the 
fact  that  her  correspondence  with  Mr.  Ransom,  as  her 
friend  had  called  it,  had  consisted  on  his  part  of  only  one 
letter.  It  was  a  very  short  one,  too ;  it  had  come  to  her  a 
little  more  than  a  month  before.  Olive  knew  she  got  letters 
from  gentlemen ;  she  didn't  see  why  she  should  attach  such 
importance  to  this  one.  Miss  Chancellor  was  leaning  back 
in  the  carriage,  very  still,  very  grave,  with  her  head  against 
the  cushioned  surface,  only  turning  her  eyes  towards  the 
girl. 

'You  attach  importance  yourself;  otherwise  you  would 
have  told  me.' 


xxx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  291 

{ I  knew  you  wouldn't  like  it — because  you  don't  like 
him: 

'  I  don't  think  of  him,'  said  Olive ;  '  he's  nothing  to  me.' 
Then  she  added,  suddenly,  '  Have  you  noticed  that  I  am 
afraid  to  face  what  I  don't  like?' 

Verena  could  not  say  that  she  had,  and  yet  it  was  not 
just  on  Olive's  part  to  speak  as  if  she  were  an  easy  person 
to  tell  such  a  thing  to  :  the  way  she  lay  there,  white  and 
weak,  like  a  wounded  creature,  sufficiently  proved  the  con- 
trary. '  You  have  such  a  fearful  power  of  suffering,'  she 
replied  in  a  moment. 

To  this  at  first  Miss  Chancellor  made  no  rejoinder ;  but 
after  a  little  she  said,  in  the  same  attitude,  '  Yes,  you  could 
make  me.' 

Verena  took  her  hand  and  held  it  awhile.  'I  never 
will,  till  I  have  been  through  everything  myself.' 

'  You  were  not  made  to  suffer — you  were  made  to  enjoy,' 
Olive  said,  in  very  much  the  same  tone  in  which  she 
had  told  her  that  what  was  the  matter  with  her  was  that 
she  didn't  dislike  men  as  a  class — a  tone  which  implied 
that  the  contrary  would  have  been  much  more  natural  and 
perhaps  rather  higher.  Perhaps  it  would ;  but  Verena  was 
unable  to  rebut  the  charge ;  she  felt  this,  as  she  looked  out 
of  the  window  of  the  carriage  at  the  bright,  amusing  city, 
where  the  elements  seemed  so  numerous,  the  animation  so 
immense,  the  shops  so  brilliant,  the  women  so  strikingly 
dressed,  and  knew  that  these  things  quickened  her  curiosity, 
all  her  pulses. 

'  Well,  I  suppose  I  mustn't  presume  on  it,'  she  remarked, 
glancing  back  at  Olive  with  her  natural  sweetness,  her 
uncontradicting  grace. 

That  young  lady  lifted  her  hand  to  her  lips — held  it 
there  a  moment;  the  movement  seemed  to  say,  'When 
you  are  so  divinely  docile,  how  can  I  help  the  dread  of 
losing  you?'  This  idea,  however,  was  unspoken,  and  Olive 
Chancellor's  uttered  words,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on,  were 
different. 

'Verena,  I  don't  understand  why  he  wrote  to  you.' 

*  He  wrote  to  me  because  he  likes  me.  Perhaps  you'll 
say  you  don't  understand  why  he  likes  me,'  the  girl  con- 


292  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxx. 

tinued,  laughing.  'He  liked  me  the  first  time  he  saw 
me.' 

'  Oh,  that  time  ! '  Olive  murmured. 

'And  still  more  the  second.' 

1  Did  he  tell  you  that  in  his  letter  ?'  Miss  Chancellor 
inquired. 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  he  told  me  that.  Only  he  expressed  it 
more  gracefully.'  Verena  was  very  happy  to  say  that;  a 
written  phrase  of  Basil  Ransom's  sufficiently  justified  her. 

'  It  was  my  intuition — it  was  my  foreboding !'  Olive 
exclaimed,  closing  her  eyes. 

'  I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  dislike  him.' 

'  It  isn't  dislike — it's  simple  dread.  Is  that  all  there  is 
between  you  ? ' 

'Why,  Olive  Chancellor,  what  do  you  think?'  Verena 
asked,  feeling  now  distinctly  like  a  coward.  Five  minutes 
afterwards  she  said  to  Olive  that  if  it  would  give  her 
pleasure  they  would  leave  New  York  on  the  morrow,  with- 
out taking  a  fourth  day ;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  done  so 
she  felt  better,  especially  when  she  saw  how  gratefully  Olive 
looked  at  her  for  the  concession,  how  eagerly  she  rose  to 
the  offer  in  saying,  'Well,  if  you  do  feel  that  it  isn't  our 
own  life — our  very  own  !'  It  was  with  these  words,  and 
others  besides,  and  with  an  unusually  weak,  indefinite  kiss, 
as  if  she  wished  to  protest  that,  after  all,  a  single  day  didn't 
matter,  and  yet  accepted  the  sacrifice  and  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  it — it  was  in  this  manner  that  the  agreement  as 
to  an  immediate  retreat  was  sealed.  Verena  could  not 
shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  for  a  month  she  had  been  less 
frank,  and  if  she  wished  to  do  penance  this  abbreviation  of 
their  pleasure  in  New  York,  even  if  it  made  her  almost 
completely  miss  Basil  Ransom,  was  easier  than  to  tell 
Olive  just  now  that  the  letter  was  not  all,  that  there  had 
been  a  long  visit,  a  talk,  and  a  walk  besides,  which  she  had 
been  covering  up  for  ever  so  many  weeks.  And  of  what 
consequence,  anyway,  was  the  missing?  Was  it  such  a 
pleasure  to  converse  with  a  gentleman  who  only  wanted  to 
let  you  know — and  why  he  should  want  it  so  much  Verena 
couldn't  guess — that  he  thought  you  quite  preposterous? 
Olive  took  her  from  place  to  place,  and  she  ended  by  for- 


xxx.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  %  293 

getting  everything  but  the  present  hour,  and  the  bigness 
and  variety  of  New  York,  and  the  entertainment  of  rolling 
about  in  a  carriage  with  silk  cushions,  and  meeting  new 
faces,  new  expressions  of  curiosity  and  sympathy,  assurances 
that  one  was  watched  and  followed.  Mingled  with  this 
was  a  bright  consciousness,  sufficient  for  the  moment,  that 
one  was  moreover  to  dine  at  Delmonico's  and  go  to  the 
German  opera.  There  was  enough  of  the  epicurean  in 
Verena's  composition  to  make  it  easy  for  her  in  certain 
conditions  to  live  only  for  the  hour. 


XXXI. 

WHEN  she  returned  with  her  companion  to  the  establish- 
ment in  Tenth  Street  she  saw  two  notes  lying  on  the  table 
in  the  hall ;  one  of  which  she  perceived  to  be  addressed  to 
Miss  Chancellor,  the  other  to  herself.  The  hand  was 
different,  but  she  recognised  both.  Olive  was  behind  her 
on  the  steps,  talking  to  the  coachman  about  sending  another 
carriage  for  them  in  half  an  hour  (they  had  left  themselves 
but  just  time  to  dress) ;  so  that  she  simply  possessed  herself 
of  her  own  note  and  ascended  to  her  room.  As  she  did  so 
she  felt  that  all  the  while  she  had  known  it  would  be  there, 
and  was  conscious  of  a  kind  of  treachery,  an  unfriendly 
wilfulness,  in  not  being  more  prepared  for  it.  If  she  could 
roll  about  New  York  the  whole  afternoon  and  forget  that 
there  might  be  difficulties  ahead,  that  didn't  alter  the  fact 
that  there  were  difficulties,  and  that  they  might  even  become 
considerable — might  not  be  settled  by  her  simply  going 
back  to  Boston.  Half  an  hour  later,  as  she  drove  up  the 
Fifth  Avenue  with  Olive  (there  seemed  to  be  so  much 
crowded  into  that  one  day),  smoothing  her  light  gloves, 
wishing  her  fan  were  a  little  nicer,  and  proving  by  the 
answering,  familiar  brightness  with  which  she  looked  out  on 
the  lamp -lighted  streets  that,  whatever  theory  might  be 
entertained  as  to  the  genesis  of  her  talent  and  her  personal 
nature,  the  blood  of  the  lecture-going,  night-walking  Tarrants 
did  distinctly  flow  in  her  veins ;  as  the  pair  proceeded,  I 
say,  to  the  celebrated  restaurant,  at  the  door  of  which  Mr. 
Burrage  had  promised  to  be  in  vigilant  expectancy  of  their 
carriage,  Verena  found  a  sufficiently  gay  and  natural  tone 
of  voice  for  remarking  to  her  friend  that  Mr.  Ransom  had 
called  upon  her  while  they  were  out,  and  had  left  a  note  in 
which  there  were  many  compliments  for  Miss  Chancellor. 


xxxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  295 

1  That's  wholly  your  own  affair,  my  dear,'  Olive  replied, 
with  a  melancholy  sigh,  gazing  down  the  vista  of  Fourteenth 
Street  (which  they  happened  just  then  to  be  traversing,  with 
much  agitation),  toward  the  queer  barrier  of  the  elevated 
railway. 

It  was  nothing  new  to  Verena  that  if  the  great  striving 
of  Olive's  life  was  for  justice  she  yet  sometimes  failed  to 
arrive  at  it  in  particular  cases ;  and  she  reflected  that  it  was 
rather  late  for  her  to  say,  like  that,  that  Basil  Ransom's 
letters  were  only  his  correspondent's  business.  Had  not 
his  kinswoman  quite  made  the  subject  her  own  during  their 
drive  that  afternoon?  Verena  determined  now  that  her 
companion  should  hear  all  there  was  to  be  heard  about  the 
letter;  asking  herself  whether,  if  she  told  her  at  present 
more  than  she  cared  to  know,  it  wouldn't  make  up  for  her 
hitherto  having  told  her  less.  '  He  brought  it  with  him, 
written,  in  case  I  should  be  out.  He  wants  to  see  me  to- 
morrow— he  says  he  has  ever  so  much  to  say  to  me.  He 
proposes  an  hour — says  he  hopes  it  won't  be  inconvenient 
for  me  to  see  him  about  eleven  in  the  morning ;  thinks  I 
may  have  no  other  engagement  so  early  as  that.  Of  course 
our  return  to  Boston  settles  it,'  Verena  added,  with  serenity. 

Miss  Chancellor  said  nothing  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
replied,  '  Yes,  unless  you  invite  him  to  come  on  with  you 
in  the  train.' 

*  Why,  Olive,  how  bitter  you  are  !'  Verena  exclaimed,  in 
genuine  surprise. 

Olive  could  not  justify  her  bitterness  by  saying  that  her 
companion  had  spoken  as  if  she  were  disappointed,  because 
Verena  had  not.  So  she  simply  remarked,  '  I  don't  see 
what  he  can  have  to  say  to  you — that  would  be  worth 
your  hearing.' 

'  Well,  of  course,  it's  the  other  side.  He  has  got  it  on 
the  brain  !'  said  Verena,  with  a  laugh  which  seemed  to 
relegate  the  whole  matter  to  the  category  of  the  unim- 
portant. 

'If  we  should  stay,  would  you  see  him — at  eleven 
o'clock?'  Olive  inquired. 

'Why  do  you  ask  that — when  I  have  given  it  up?' 

'Do  you  consider  it  such  a  tremendous  sacrifice?' 


296  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxi. 

'  No,'  said  Verena  good-naturedly ;  '  but  I  confess  I  am 
curious.' 

*  Curious — how  do  you  mean?' 

'Well,  to  hear  the  other  side.' 

'  Oh  heaven  !'  Olive  Chancellor  murmured,  turning  her 
face  upon  her. 

'You  must  remember  I  have  never  heard  it.'  And 
Verena  smiled  into  her  friend's  wan  gaze. 

'Do  you  want  to  hear  all  the  infamy  that  is  in  the 
world?' 

'  No,  it  isn't  that ;  but  the  more  he  should  talk  the 
better  chance  he  would  give  me.  I  guess  I  can  meet  him.' 

'  Life  is  too  short.     Leave  him  as  he  is.' 

'  Well,'  Verena  went  on,  '  there  are  many  I  haven't 
cared  to  move  at  all,  whom  I  might  have  been  more 
interested  in  than  in  him.  But  to  make  him  give  in  just 
at  two  or  three  points — that  I  should  like  better  than  any- 
thing I  have  done.' 

'  You  have  no  business  to  enter  upon  a  contest  that  isn't 
equal ;  and  it  wouldn't  be,  with  Mr.  Ransom.' 

'  The  inequality  would  be  that  I  have  right  on  my  side.' 

'  What  is  that — for  a  man  ?  For  what  was  their  brutality 
given  them,  but  to  make  that  up?' 

'  I  don't  think  he's  brutal ;  I  should  like  to  see,'  said 
Verena  gaily. 

Olive's  eyes  lingered  a  little  on  her  own ;  then  they 
turned  away,  vaguely,  blindly,  out  of  the  carriage-window, 
and  Verena  made  the  reflection  that  she  looked  strangely 
little  like  a  person  who  was  going  to  dine  at  Delmonico's. 
How  terribly  she  worried  about  everything,  and  how  tragical 
was  her  nature ;  how  anxious,  suspicious,  exposed  to  subtle 
influences  !  In  their  long  intimacy  Verena  had  come  to 
revere  most  of  her  friend's  peculiarities  •  they  were  a  proof 
of  her  depth  and  devotion,  and  were  so  bound  up  with 
what  was  noble  in  her  that  she  was  rarely  provoked  to 
criticise  them  separately.  But  at  present,  suddenly,  Olive's 
earnestness  began  to  appear  as  inharmonious  with  the 
scheme  of  the  universe  as  if  it  had  been  a  broken  saw; 
and  she  was  positively  glad  she  had  not  told  her  about 
Basil  Ransom's  appearance  in  Monadnoc  Place.  If  she 


xxxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  297 

worried  so  about  what  she  knew,  how  much  would  she  not 
have  worried  about  the  rest!  Verena  had  by  this  time 
made  up  her  mind  that  her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Ransom 
was  the  most  episodical,  most  superficial,  most  unimportant 
of  all  possible  relations. 

Olive  Chancellor  watched  Henry  Burrage  very  closely 
that  evening ;  she  had  a  special  reason  for  doing  so,  and 
her  entertainment,  during  the  successive  hours,  was  derived 
much  less  from  the  delicate  little  feast  over  which  this 
insinuating  proselyte  presided,  in  the  brilliant  public  room 
of  the  establishment,  where  French  waiters  flitted  about  on 
deep  carpets  and  parties  at  neighbouring  tables  excited 
curiosity  and  conjecture,  or  even  from  the  magnificent 
music  of  '  Lohengrin,'  than  from  a  secret  process  of  com- 
parison and  verification,  which  shall  presently  be  explained 
to  the  reader.  As  some  discredit  has  possibly  been  thrown 
upon  her  impartiality  it  is  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to  say  that 
on  her  return  from  the  opera  she  took  a  step  dictated  by 
an  earnest  consideration  of  justice — of  the  promptness  with 
which  Verena  had  told  her  of  the  note  left  by  Basil  Ransom 
in  the  afternoon.  She  drew  Verena  into  her  room  with 
her.  The  girl,  on  the  way  back  to  Tenth  Street,  had 
spoken  only  of  Wagner's  music,  of  the  singers,  the  orchestra, 
the  immensity  of  the  house,  her  tremendous  pleasure. 
Olive  could  see  how  fond  she  might  become  of  New 
York,  where  that  kind  of  pleasure  was  so  much  more  in 
the  air. 

'Well,  Mr.  Burrage  was  certainly  very  kind  to  us — no 
one  could  have  been  more  thoughtful,'  Olive  said ;  and  she 
coloured  a  little  at  the  look  with  which  Verena  greeted  this 
tribute  of  appreciation  from  Miss  Chancellor  to  a  single 
gentleman. 

4 1  am  so  glad  you  were  struck  with  that,  because  I 
do  think  we  have  been  a  little  rough  to  him.'  Verena's  we 
was  angelic.  'He  was  particularly  attentive  to  you,  my 
dear ;  he  has  got  over  me.  He  looked  at  you  so  sweetly. 

Dearest  Olive,  if  you  marry  him ! '  And  Miss  Tarrant, 

who  was  in  high  spirits,  embraced  her  companion,  to  check 
her  own  silliness. 

'  He  wants  you  to  stay  there,   all   the  same.      They 


298  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxi. 

haven't  given  that  up,'  Olive  remarked,  turning  to  a  drawer, 
out  of  which  she  took  a  letter. 

'  Did  he  tell  you  that,  pray  ?  He  said  nothing  more 
about  it  to  me.' 

*  When  we  came  in  this  afternoon  I  found  this  note  from 
Mrs.  Burrage.  You  had  better  read  it.'  And  she  pre- 
sented the  document,  open,  to  Verena. 

The  purpose  of  it  was  to  say  that  Mrs.  Burrage  could 
really  not  reconcile  herself  to  the  loss  of  Verena's  visit,  on 
which  both  she  and  her  son  had  counted  so  much.  She 
was  sure  they  would  be  able  to  make  it  as  interesting  to 
Miss  Tarrant  as  it  would  be  to  themselves.  She,  Mrs. 
Burrage,  moreover,  felt  as  if  she  hadn't  heard  half  she 
wanted  about  Miss  Tarrant's  views,  and  there  were  so  many 
more  who  were  present  at  the  address,  who  had  come  to 
her  that  afternoon  (losing  not  a  minute,  as  Miss  Chancellor 
could  see),  to  ask  how  in  the  world  they  too  could  learn 
more — how  they  could  get  at  the  fair  speaker  and  question 
her  about  certain  details.  She  hoped  so  much,  therefore, 
that  even  if  the  young  ladies  should  be  unable  to  alter  their 
decision  about  the  visit  they  might  at  least  see  their  way  to 
staying  over  long  enough  to  allow  her  to  arrange  an  informal 
meeting  for  some  of  these  poor  thirsty  souls.  Might  she 
not  at  least  talk  over  the  question  with  Miss  Chancellor  ? 
She  gave  her  notice  that  she  would  attack  her  on  the  subject 
of  the  visit  too.  Might  she  not  see  her  on  the  morrow, 
and  might  she  ask  of  her  the  very  great  favour  that  the 
interview  should  be  at  Mrs.  Burrage's  own  house  ?  She  had 
something  very  particular  to  say  to  her,  as  regards  which 
perfect  privacy  was  agreat  consideration,  and  Miss  Chancellor 
would  doubtless  recognise  that  this  would  be  best  secured 
under  Mrs.  Burrage's  roof.  She  would  therefore  send  her 
carriage  for  Miss  Chancellor  at  any  hour  that  would  be 
convenient  to  the  latter.  She  really  thought  much  good 
might  come  from  their  having  a  satisfactory  talk. 

Verena  read  this  epistle  with  much  deliberation;  it 
seemed  to  her  mysterious,  and  confirmed  the  idea  she  had 
received  the  night  before — the  idea  that  she  had  not  got 
quite  a  correct  impression  of  this  clever,  worldly,  curious 
woman  on  the  occasion  of  her  visit  to  Cambridge,  when 


xxxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  299 

they  met  her  at  her  son's  rooms.  As  she  gave  the  letter 
back  to  Olive  she  said,  'That's  why  he  didn't  seem  to 
believe  we  are  really  leaving  to-morrow.  He  knows  she 
had  written  that,  and  he  thinks  it  will  keep  us/ 

'  Well,  if  I  were  to  say  it  may — should  you  think  me  too 
miserably  changeful?' 

Verena  stared,  with  all  her  candour,  and  it  was  so  very 
queer  that  Olive  should  now  wish  to  linger  that  the  sense  of 
it,  for  the  moment,  almost  covered  the  sense  of  its  being 
pleasant.  But  that  came  out  after  an  instant,  and  she  said, 
with  great  honesty,  'You  needn't  drag  me  away  for  con- 
sistency's sake.  It  would  be  absurd  for  me  to  pretend  that 
I  don't  like  being  here.' 

'  I  think  perhaps  I  ought  to  see  her.'  Olive  was  very 
thoughtful. 

'How  lovely  it  must  be  to  have  a  secret  with  Mrs. 
Burrage  ! '  Verena  exclaimed. 

'  It  won't  be  a  secret  from  you.' 

'  Dearest,  you  needn't  tell  me  unless  you  want,'  Verena 
went  on,  thinking  of  her  own  unimparted  knowledge. 

'  I  thought  it  was  our  plan  to  divide  everything.  It  was 
certainly  mine.' 

'  Ah,  don't  talk  about  plans  ! '  Verena  exclaimed,  rather 
ruefully.  '  You  see,  if  we  are  going  to  stay  to-morrow,  how 
foolish  it  was  to  have  any.  There  is  more  in  her  letter  than 
is  expressed,'  she  added,  as  Olive  appeared  to  be  studying 
in  her  face  the  reasons  for  and  against  making  this  con- 
cession to  Mrs.  Burrage,  and  that  was  rather  embarrassing. 

'  I  thought  it  over  all  the  evening — so  that  if  now  you 
will  consent  we  will  stay.' 

'  Darling — what  a  spirit  you  have  got !  All  through 
all  those  dear  little  dishes — all  through  "  Lohengrin  !  "  As  I 
haven't  thought  it  over  at  all,  you  must  settle  it.  You  know 
I  am  not  difficult.' 

'  And  would  you  go  and  stay  with  Mrs.  Burrage,  after  all, 
if  she  should  say  anything  to  me  that  seems  to  make  it 
desirable  ? ' 

Verena  broke  into  a  laugh.  'You  know  it's  not  our 
real  life ! ' 

Olive  said  nothing  for  a  moment ;  then  she  replied : 


300  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxi. 

'  Don't  think  /  can  forget  that.  If  I  suggest  a  deviation, 
it's  only  because  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  almost  anything  is  better  than  the  form  reality  may  take 
with  us.'  This  was  slightly  obscure,  as  well  as  very  melan- 
choly, and  Verena  was  relieved  when  her  companion 
remarked,  in  a  moment,  'You  must  think  me  strangely 
inconsequent;'  for  this  gave  her  a  chance  to  reply, 
soothingly : 

1  Why,  you  don't  suppose  I  expect  you  to  keep  always 
screwed  up !  I  will  stay  a  week  with  Mrs.  Burrage,  or  a 
fortnight,  or  a  month,  or  anything  you  like,'  she  pursued ; 
'  anything  it  may  seem  to  you  best  to  tell  her  after  you  have 
seen  her.' 

'  Do  you  leave  it  all  to  me  ?  You  don't  give  me  much 
help,'  Olive  said. 

I  Help  to  what  ? ' 
'Help  to  help  you? 

I 1  don't  want  any  help  ;  I  am  quite  strong  enough  ! ' 
Verena  cried,  gaily.     The  next  moment  she  inquired,  in 
an  appeal  half  comical,  half  touching,  '  My  dear  colleague, 
why  do  you  make  me  say  such  conceited  things  ? ' 

'  And  if  you  do  stay — just  even  to-morrow — shall  you  be 
— very  much  of  the  time — with  Mr.  Ransom  ? ' 

As  Verena  for  the  moment  appeared  ironically-minded, 
she  might  have  found  a  fresh  subject  for  hilarity  in  the 
tremulous,  tentative  tone  in  which  Olive  made  this  inquiry. 
But  it  had  not  that  effect ;  it  produced  the  first  manifesta- 
tion of  impatience — the  first,  literally,  and  the  first  note  of 
reproach — that  had  occurred  in  the  course  of  their  remark- 
able intimacy.  The  colour  rose  to  Verena's  cheek,  and 
her  eye  for  an  instant  looked  moist. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  always  think,  Olive,  nor  why 
you  don't  seem  able  to  trust  me.  You  didn't,  from  the  first, 
with  gentlemen.  Perhaps  you  were  right  then — I  don't  say ; 
but  surely  it  is  very  different  now.  I  don't  think  I  ought 
to  be  suspected  so  much.  Why  have  you  a  manner  as  if  I 
had  to  be  watched,  as  if  I  wanted  to  run  away  with  every 
man  that  speaks  to  me  ?  I  should  think  I  had  proved  how 
little  I  care.  I  thought  you  had  discovered  by  this  time 
that  I  am  serious ;  that  I  have  dedicated  my  life ;  that  there 


xxxi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  301 

is  something  unspeakably  dear  to  me.  But  you  begin  again, 
every  time — you  don't  do  me  justice.  I  must  take  every- 
thing that  comes.  I  mustn't  be  afraid.  I  thought  we  had 
agreed  that  we  were  to  do  our  work  in  the  midst  of  the  world, 
facing  everything,  keeping  straight  on,  always  taking  hold. 
And  now  that  it  all  opens  out  so  magnificently,  and  victory 
is  really  sitting  on  our  banners,  it  is  strange  of  you  to  doubt 
of  me,  to  suppose  I  am  not  more  wedded  to  all  our  old 
dreams  than  ever.  I  told  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you  that 
I  could  renounce,  and  knowing  better  to-day,  perhaps,  what 
that  means,  I  am  ready  to  say  it  again.  That  I  can,  that  I 
will !  Why,  Olive  Chancellor,'  Verena  cried,  panting,  a 
moment,  with  her  eloquence,  and  with  the  rush  of  a 
culminating  idea,  '  haven't  you  discovered  by  this  time  that 
I  have  renounced  ? ' 

The  habit  of  public  speaking,  the  training,  the  practice, 
in  which  she  had  been  immersed,  enabled  Verena  to  unroll 
a  coil  of  propositions  dedicated  even  to  a  private  interest 
with  the  most  touching,  most  cumulative  effect.  Olive 
was  completely  aware  of  this,  and  she  stilled  herself,  while 
the  girl  uttered  one  soft,  pleading  sentence  after  another, 
into  the  same  rapt  attention  she  was  in  the  habit  of  sending 
up  from  the  benches  of  an  auditorium.  She  looked  at 
Verena  fixedly,  felt  that  she  was  stirred  to  her  depths,  that 
she  was  exquisitely  passionate  and  sincere,  that  she  was  a 
quivering,  spotless,  consecrated  maiden,  that  she  really  had 
renounced,  that  they  were  both  safe,  and  that  her  own  in- 
justice and  indelicacy  had  been  great.  She  came  to  her 
slowly,  took  her  in  her  arms  and  held  her  long — giving  her 
a  silent  kiss.  From  which  Verena  knew  that  she  believed 
her. 


XXXII. 

THE  hour  that  Olive  proposed  to  Mrs.  Burrage,  in  a  note 
sent  early  the  next  morning,  for  the  interview  to  which  she 
consented  to  lend  herself,  was  the  stroke  of  noon;  this 
period  of  the  day  being  chosen  in  consequence  of  a 
prevision  of  many  subsequent  calls  upon  her  time.  She 
remarked  in  her  note  that  she  did  not  wish  any  carriage  to 
be  sent  for  her,  and  she  surged  and  swayed  up  the  Fifth 
Avenue  on  one  of  the  convulsive,  clattering  omnibuses 
which  circulate  in  that  thoroughfare.  One  of  her  reasons 
for  mentioning  twelve  o'clock  had  been  that  she  knew  Basil 
Ransom  was  to  call  at  Tenth  Street  at  eleven,  and  (as  she 
supposed  he  didn't  intend  to  stay  all  day)  this  would  give 
her  time  to  see  him  come  and  go.  It  had  been  tacitly 
agreed  between  them,  the  night  before,  that  Verena  was 
quite  firm  enough  in  her  faith  to  submit  to  his  visit,  and  that 
such  a  course  would  be  much  more  dignified  than  dodging  it. 
This  understanding  passed  from  one  to  the  other  during 
that  dumb  embrace  which  I  have  described  as  taking  place 
before  they  separated  for  the  night.  Shortly  before  noon, 
Olive,  passing  out  of  the  house,  looked  into  the  big,  sunny 
double  parlour,  where,  in  the  morning,  with  all  the  husbands 
absent  for  the  day  and  all  the  wives  and  spinsters  launched 
upon  the  town,  a  young  man  desiring  to  hold  a  debate  with 
a  young  lady  might  enjoy  every  advantage  in  the  way  of  a 
clear  field.  Basil  Ransom  was  still  there ;  he  and  Verena, 
with  the  place  to  themselves,  were  standing  in  the  recess  of 
a  window,  their  backs  presented  to  the  door.  If  he  had 
got  up,  perhaps  he  was  going,  and  Olive,  softly  closing  the 
door  again,  waited  a  little  in  the  hall,  ready  to  pass  into  the 
back  part  of  trie  house  if  she  should  hear  him  coming  out. 
No  sound,  however,  reached  her  ear;  apparently  he  did 


xxxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  303 

mean  to  stay  all  day,  and  she  should  find  him  there  on  her 
return.  She  left  the  house,  knowing  they  were  looking  at 
her  from  the  window  as  she  descended  the  steps,  but 
feeling  she  could  not  bear  to  see  Basil  Ransom's  face.  As 
she  walked,  averting  her  own,  towards  the  Fifth  Avenue,  on 
the  sunny  side,  she  was  barely  conscious  of  the  loveliness  of 
the  day,  the  perfect  weather,  all  suffused  and  tinted  with 
spring,  which  sometimes  descends  upon  New  York  when 
the  winds  of  March  have  been  stilled ;  she  was  given  up 
only  to  the  remembrance  of  that  moment  when  she  herself 
had  stood  at  a  window  (the  second  time  he  came  to  see  her 
in  Boston),  and  watched  Basil  Ransom  pass  out  with 
Adeline — with  Adeline  who  had  seemed  capable  then  of 
getting  such  a  hold  on  him  but  had  proved  as  ineffectual 
in  this  respect  as  she  was  in  every  other.  She  recalled  the 
vision  she  had  allowed  to  dance  before  her  as  she  saw  the 
pair  cross  the  street  together,  laughing  and  talking,  and  how 
it  seemed  to  interpose  itself  against  the  fears  which  already 
then — so  strangely — haunted  her.  Now  that  she  saw  it  so 
fruitless — and  that  Verena,  moreover,  had  turned  out  really 
so  great — she  was  rather  ashamed  of  it ;  she  felt  associated, 
however  remotely,  in  the  reasons  which  had  made  Mrs. 
Luna  tell  her  so  many  fibs  the  day  before,  and  there  could 
be  nothing  elevating  in  that.  As  for  the  other  reasons  why 
her  fidgety  sister  had  failed  and  Mr.  Ransom  had  held  his 
own  course,  naturally  Miss  Chancellor  didn't  like  to  think 
of  them. 

If  she  had  wondered  what  Mrs.  Burrage  wished  so 
particularly  to  talk  about,  she  waited  some  time  for  the 
clearing-up  of  the  mystery.  During  this  interval  she  sat  in 
a  remarkably  pretty  boudoir,  where  there  were  flowers  and 
faiences  and  little  French  pictures,  and  watched  her  hostess 
revolve  round  the  subject  in  circles  the  vagueness  of  which 
she  tried  to  dissimulate.  Olive  believed  she  was  a  person 
who  never  could  enjoy  asking  a  favour,  especially  of  a 
votary  of  the  new  ideas ;  and  that  was  evidently  what  was 
coming.  She  had  asked  one  already,  but  that  had  been 
handsomely  paid  for ;  the  note  from  Mrs.  Burrage  which 
Verena  found  awaiting  her  in  Tenth  Street,  on  her  arrival, 
contained  the  largest  cheque  this  young  woman  had  ever 


304  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

received  for  an  address.  The  request  that  hung  fire  had 
reference  to  Verena  too,  of  course ;  and  Olive  needed  no 
prompting  to  feel  that  her  friend's  being  a  young  person 
who  took  money  could  not  make  Mrs.  Burrage's  present 
effort  more  agreeable.  To  this  taking  of  money  (for  when 
it  came  to  Verena  it  was  as  if  it  came  to  her  as  well),  she 
herself  was  now  completely  inured ;  money  was  a  tremen- 
dous force,  and  when  one  wanted  to  assault  the  wrong  with 
every  engine  one  was  happy  not  to  lack  the  sinews  of  war. 
She  liked  her  hostess  better  this  morning  than  she  had 
liked  her  before ;  she  had  more  than  ever  the  air  of  taking 
all  sorts  of  sentiments  and  views  for  granted  between  them; 
which  could  only  be  flattering  to  Olive  so  long  as  it  was 
really  Mrs.  Burrage  who  made  each  advance,  while  her 
visitor  sat  watchful  and  motionless.  She  had  a  light,  clever, 
familiar  way  of  traversing  an  immense  distance  with  a  very 
few  words,  as  when  she  remarked,  '  Well  then,  it  is  settled 
that  she  will  come,  and  will  stay  till  she  is  tired.' 

Nothing  of  the  kind  had  been  settled,  but  Olive  helped 
Mrs.  Burrage  (this  time)  more  than  she  knew  by  saying, 
'  Why  do  you  want  her  to  visit  you,  Mrs.  Burrage  ?  why  do 
you  want  her  socially  ?  Are  you  not  aware  that  your  son, 
a  year  ago,  desired  to  marry  her?' 

'  My  dear  Miss  Chancellor,  that  is  just  what  I  wish  to 
talk  to  you  about.  I  am  aware  of  everything;  I  don't 
believe  you  ever  met  any  one  who  is  aware  of  more  things 
than  I.7  And  Olive  had  to  believe  this,  as  Mrs.  Burrage 
held  up,  smiling,  her  intelligent,  proud,  good-natured, 
successful  head.  '  I  knew  a  year  ago  that  my  son  was  in 
love  with  your  friend,  I  know  that  he  has  been  so  ever 
since,  and  that  in  consequence  he  would  like  to  marry  her 
to-day.  I  daresay  you  don't  like  the  idea  of  her  marrying 
at  all ;  it  would  break  up  a  friendship  which  is  so  full  of 
interest '  (Olive  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  she  had 
been  going  to  say  '  so  full  of  profit '),  c  for  you.  This  is 
why  I  hesitated ;  but  since  you  are  willing  to  talk  about  it, 
that  is  just  what  I  want.' 

*  I  don't  see  what  good  it  will  do,'  Olive  said. 

'  How  can  we  tell  till  we  try  ?  I  never  give  a  thing  up 
till  I  have  turned  it  over  in  every  sense.' 


xxxii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  305 

It  was  Mrs.  Burrage,  however,  who  did  most  of  the 
talking ;  Olive  only  inserted  from  time  to  time  an  inquiry, 
a  protest,  a  correction,  an  ejaculation  tinged  with  irony. 
None  of  these  things  checked  or  diverted  her  hostess ; 
Olive  saw  more  and  more  that  she  wished  to  please  her,  to 
win  her  over,  to  smooth  matters  down,  to  place  them  in  a 
new  and  original  light.  She  was  very  clever  and  (little  by 
little  Olive  said  to  herself),  absolutely  unscrupulous,  but  she 
didn't  think  she  was  clever  enough  for  what  she  had  under- 
taken. This  was  neither  more  nor  less,  in  the  first  place, 
than  to  persuade  Miss  Chancellor  that  she  and  her  son 
were  consumed  with  sympathy  for  the  movement  to  which 
Miss  Chancellor  had  dedicated  her  life.  But  how  could 
Olive  believe  that,  when  she  saw  the  type  to  which  Mrs. 
Burrage  belonged — a  type  into  which  nature  herself  had 
inserted  a  face  turned  in  the  very,  opposite  way  from  all 
earnest  and  improving  things  ?  People  like  Mrs.  Burrage 
lived  and  fattened  on  abuses,  prejudices,  privileges,  on  the 
petrified,  cruel  fashions  of  the  past.  It  must  be  added, 
however,  that  if  her  hostess  was  a  humbug,  Olive  had  never 
met  one  who  provoked  her  less ;  she  was  such  a  brilliant, 
genial,  artistic  one,  with  such  a  recklessness  of  perfidy,  such 
a  willingness  to  bribe  you  if  she  couldn't  deceive  you.  She 
seemed  to  be  offering  Olive  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 
if  she  would  only  exert  herself  to  bring  about  a  state  of 
feeling  on  Verena  Tarrant's  part  which  would  lead  the  girl 
to  accept  Henry  Burrage. 

'  We  know  it's  you — the  whole  business ;  that  you  can 
do  what  you  please.  You  could  decide  it  to-morrow  with 
a  word/ 

She  had  hesitated  at  first,  and  spoken  of  her  hesitation, 
and  it  might  have  appeared  that  she  would  need  all  her 
courage  to  say  to  Olive,  that  way,  face  to  face,  that  Verena 
was  in  such  subjection  to  her.  But  she  didn't  look  afraid ; 
she  only  looked  as  if  it  were  an  infinite  pity  Miss  Chancellor 
couldn't  understand  what  immense  advantages  and  rewards 
there  would  be  for  her  in  striking  an  alliance  with  the 
house  of  Burrage.  Olive  was  so  impressed  with  this,  so 
occupied,  even,  in  wondering  what  these  mystic  benefits 
might  be,  and  whether  after  all  there  might  not  be  a  pro- 

x 


306  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

tection  in  them  (from  something  worse),  a  fund  of  some 
sort  that  she  and  Verena  might  convert  to  a  large  use, 
setting  aside  the  mother  and  son  when  once  they  had  got 
what  they  had  to  give — she  was  so  arrested  with  the  vague 
daze  of  this  vision,  the  sense  of  Mrs.  Burrage's  full  hands, 
her  eagerness,  her  thinking  it  worth  while  to  flatter  and 
conciliate,  whatever  her  pretexts  and  pretensions  might  be, 
that  she  was  almost  insensible,  for  the  time,  to  the  strange- 
ness of  such  a  woman's  coming  round  to  a  positive  desire 
for  a  connection  with  the  Tarrants.  Mrs.  Burrage  had 
indeed  explained  this  partly  by  saying  that  her  son's  condi- 
tion was  wearing  her  out,  and  that  she  would  enter  into 
anything  that  would  make  him  happier,  make  him  better. 
She  was  fonder  of  him  than  of  the  whole  world  beside,  and 
it  was  an  anguish  to  her  to  see  him  yearning  for  Miss  Tarrant 
only  to  lose  her.  She  made  that  charge  about  Olive's 
power  in  the  matter  in  such  a  way  that  it  seemed  at  the 
same  time  a  tribute  to  her  force  of  character. 

'  I  don't  know  on  what  terms  you  suppose  me  to  be  with 
my  friend,'  Olive  returned,  with  considerable  majesty. 
*  She  will  do  exactly  as  she  likes,  in  such  a  case  as  the  one 
you  allude  to.  She  is  absolutely  free ;  you  speak  as  if  I 
were  her  keeper ! ' 

Then  Mrs.  Burrage  explained  that  of  course  she  didn't 
mean  that  Miss  Chancellor  exercised  a  conscious  tyranny ; 
but  only  that  Verena  had  a  boundless  admiration  for  her, 
saw  through  her  eyes,  took  the  impress  of  all  her  opinions, 
preferences.  She  was  sure  that  if  Olive  would  only  take  a 
favourable  view  of  her  son  Miss  Tarrant  would  instantly 
throw  herself  into  it.  '  It's  very  true  that  you  may  ask  me,' 
added  Mrs.  Burrage,  smiling,  '  how  you  can  take  a  favour- 
able view  of  a  young  man  who  wants  to  marry  the  very 
person  in  the  world  you  want  most  to  keep  unmarried  !' 

This  description  of  Verena  was  of  course  perfectly 
correct ;  but  it  was  not  agreeable  to  Olive  to  have  the  fact 
in  question  so  clearly  perceived,  even  by  a  person  who 
expressed  it  with  an  air  intimating  that  there  was  nothing 
in  the  world  she  couldn't  understand. 

'  Did  your  son  know  that  you  were  going  to  speak  to 
me  about  this?'  Olive  asked,  rather  coldly,  waiving  the 


xxxii.  THE  BOSTON1ANS.  307 

question  of  her  influence  on  Verena  and  the  state  in  which 
she  wished  her  to  remain. 

'  Oh  yes,  poor  dear  boy ;  we  had  a  long  talk  yesterday, 
and  I  told  him  I  would  do  what  I  could  for  him.  Do  you 
remember  the  little  visit  I  paid  to  Cambridge  last  spring, 
when  I  saw  you  at  his  rooms  ?  Then  it  was  I  began  to  per- 
ceive how  the  wind  was  setting ;  but  yesterday  we  had  a  real 
edairtissement.  I  didn't  like  it  at  all,  at  first ;  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that,  now — now  that  I  am  really  enthusiastic 
about  it.  When  a  girl  is  as  charming,  as  original,  as  Miss 
Tarrant,  it  doesn't  in  the  least  matter  who  she  is;  she 
makes  herself  the  standard  by  which  you  measure  her ;  she 
makes  her  own  position.  And  then  Miss  Tarrant  has  such 
a  future !'  Mrs.  Burrage  added,  quickly,  as  if  that  were  the 
last  thing  to  be  overlooked.  'The  whole  question  has 
come  up  again — the  feeling  that  Henry  tried  to  think  dead, 
or  at  least  dying,  has  revived,  through  the — I  hardly  know 
what  to  call  it,  but  I  really  may  say  the  unexpectedly  great 
effect  of  her  appearance  here.  She  was  really  wonderful  on 
Wednesday  evening ;  prejudice,  conventionality,  every  pre- 
sumption there  might  be  against  her,  had  to  fall  to  the 
ground.  I  expected  a  success,  but  I  didn't  expect  what 
you  gave  us,'  Mrs.  Burrage  went  on,  smiling,  while  Olive 
noted  her  'you.'  '  In  short,  my  poor  boy  flamed  up  again; 
and  now  I  see  that  he  will  never  again  care  for  any  girl  as 
he  cares  for  that  one.  My  dear  Miss  Chancellor,  fen  ai 
pris  mon  parti,  and  perhaps  you  know  my  way  of  doing 
that  sort  of  thing.  I  am  not  at  all  good  at  resigning  myself, 
but  I  am  excellent  at  taking  up  a  craze.  I  haven't  re- 
nounced, I  have  only  changed  sides.  For  or  against,  I 
must  be  a  partisan.  Don't  you  know  that  kind  of  nature  ? 
Henry  has  put  the  affair  into  my  hands,  and  you  see  I  put 
it  into  yours.  Do  help  me;  let  us  work  together.' 

This  was  a  long,  explicit  speech  for  Mrs.  Burrage,  who 
dealt,  usually,  in  the  cursory  and  allusive;  and  she  may 
very  well  have  expected  that  Miss  Chancellor  would 
recognise  its  importance.  What  Olive  did,  in  fact,  was 
simply  to  inquire,  by  way  of  rejoinder:  'Why  did  you 
ask  us  to  come  on?' 

If  Mrs.  Burrage  hesitated  now,  it  was  only  for  twenty 


308  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

seconds.  'Simply  because  we  are  so  interested  in  your 
work.' 

'  That  surprises  me,'  said  Olive,  thoughtfully. 

'  I  daresay  you  don't  believe  it ;  but  such  a  judgment  is 
superficial.  I  am  sure  we  give  proof  in  the  offer  we  make,' 
Mrs.  Burrage  remarked,  with  a  good  deal  of  point.  '  There 
are  plenty  of  girls — without  any  views  at  all — who  would  be 
delighted  to  marry  my  son.  He  is  very  clever,  and  he  has 
a  large  fortune.  Add  to  that  that  he's  an  angel ! ' 

That  was  very  true,  and  Olive  felt  all  the  more  that  the 
attitude  of  these  fortunate  people,  for  whom  the  world  was 
so  well  arranged  just  as  it  was,  was  very  curious.  But  as 
she  sat  there  it  came  over  her  that  the  human  spirit  has 
many  variations,  that  the  influence  of  the  truth  is  great,  and 
that  there  are  such  things  in  life  as  happy  surprises,  quite 
as  well  as  disagreeable  ones.  Nothing,  certainly,  forced 
such  people  to  fix  their  affections  on  the  daughter  of  a 
'  healer 'j  it  would  be  very  clumsy  to  pick  her  out  of  her 
generation  only  for  the  purpose  of  frustrating  her.  More- 
over, her  observation  of  their  young  host  at  Delmonico's 
and  in  the  spacious  box  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  where 
they  had  privacy  and  ease,  and  murmured  words  could  pass 
without  making  neighbours  more  given  up  to  the  stage  turn 
their  heads — her  consideration  of  Henry  Burrage's  manner, 
suggested  to  her  that  she  had  measured  him  rather  scantily 
the  year  before,  that  he  was  as  much  in  love  as  the  feebler 
passions  of  the  age  permitted  (for  though  Miss  Chancellor 
believed  in  the  amelioration  of  humanity,  she  thought  there 
was  too  much  water  in  the  blood  of  all  of  us),  that  he  prized 
Verena  for  her  rarity,  which  was  her  genius,  her  gift,  and 
would  therefore  have  an  interest  in  promoting  it,  and  that 
he  was  of  so  soft  and  fine  a  paste  that  his  wife  might  do 
what  she  liked  with  him.  Of  course  there  would  be  the 
mother-in-law  to  count  with ;  but  unless  she  was  perjuring 
herself  shamelessly  Mrs.  Burrage  really  had  the  wish  to 
project  herself  into  the  new  atmosphere,  or  at  least  to  be 
generous  personally ;  so  that,  oddly  enough,  the  fear  that 
most  glanced  before  Olive  was  not  that  this  high,  free 
matron,  slightly  irritable  with  cleverness  and  at  the  same 
time  good-natured  with  prosperity,  would  bully  her  son's 


xxxn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  309 

bride,  but  rather  that  she  might  take  too  fond  a  possession 
of  her.  It  was  a  fear  which  may  be  described  as  a  pre- 
sentiment of  jealousy.  -  It  occurred,  accordingly,  to  Miss 
Chancellor's  quick  conscience  that,  possibly,  the  proposal 
which  presented  itself  in  circumstances  so  complicated  and 
anomalous  was  simply  a  magnificent  chance,  an  improvement 
on  the  very  best,  even,  that  she  had  dreamed  of  for  Verena. 
It  meant  a  large  command  of  money — much  larger  than 
her  own ;  the  association  of  a  couple  of  clever  people  who 
simulated  conviction  very  well,  whether  they  felt  it  or  not, 
and  who  had  a  hundred  useful  worldly  ramifications,  and  a 
kind  of  social  pedestal  from  which  she  might  really  shine 
afar.  The  conscience  I  have  spoken  of  grew  positively  sick 
as  it  thought  of  having  such  a  problem  as  that  to  consider, 
such  an  ordeal  to  traverse.  In  the  presence  of  such  a 
contingency  the  poor  girl  felt  grim  and  helpless ;  she  could 
only  vaguely  wonder  whether  she  were  called  upon  in  the 
name  of  duty  to  lend  a  hand  to  the  torture  of  her  own  spirit. 

'  And  if  she  should  marry  him,  how  could  I  be  sure  that 
— afterwards — you  would  care  so  much  about  the  question 
which  has  all  our  thoughts,  hers  and  mine?'  This  inquiry 
evolved  itself  from  Olive's  rapid  meditation ;  but  even  to 
herself  it  seemed  a  little  rough. 

Mrs.  Burrage  took  it  admirably.  'You  think  we  are 
feigning  an  interest,  only  to  get  hold  of  her  ?  That's  not 
very  nice  of  you,  Miss  Chancellor ;  but  of  course  you  have 
to  be  tremendously  careful.  I  assure  you  my  son  tells  me 
he  firmly  believes  your  movement  is  the  great  question  of 
the  immediate  future,  that  it  has  entered  into  a  new  phase ; 
into  what  does  he  call  it?  the  domain  of  practical  politics. 
As  for  me,  you  don't  suppose  I  don't  want  everything  we 
poor  women  can  get,  or  that  I  would  refuse  any  privilege 
or  advantage  that's  offered  me?  I  don't  rant  or  rave 
about  anything,  but  I  have — as  I  told  you  just  now — my 
own  quiet  way  of  being  zealous.  If  you  had  no  worse 
partisan  than  I,  you  would  do  very  well.  My  son  has 
talked  to  me  immensely  about  your  ideas ;  and  even  if  I 
should  enter  into  them  only  because  he  does,  I  should  do 
so  quite  enough.  You  may  say  you  don't  see  Henry 
dangling  about  after  a  wife  who  gives  public  addresses ;  but 


3io  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

I  am  convinced  that  a  great  many  things  are  coming  to  pass 
— very  soon,  too — that  we  don't  see  in  advance.  Henry  is 
a  gentleman  to  his  finger-tips,  and  there  is  not  a  situation 
in  which  he  will  not  conduct  himself  with  tact.' 

Olive  could  see  that  they  really  wanted  Verena  immensely, 
and  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  believe  that  if  they  were  to 
get  her  they  would  not  treat  her  well.  It  came  to  her  that 
they  would  even  over-indulge  her,  flatter  her,  spoil  her ;  she 
was  perfectly  capable,  for  the  moment,  of  assuming  that 
Verena  was  susceptible  of  deterioration  and  that  her  own 
treatment  of  hec  had  been  discriminatingly  severe.  She 
had  a  hundred  protests,  objections,  replies ;  her  only  embar- 
rassment could  be  as  to  which  she  should  use  first. 

'  I  think  you  have  never  seen  Doctor  Tarrant  and  his 
wife,'  she  remarked,  with  a  calmness  which  she  felt  to  be 
very  pregnant. 

'You  mean  they  are  absolutely  fearful?  My  son  has 
told  me  they  are  quite  impossible,  and  I  am  quite  prepared 
for  that.  Do  you  ask  how  we  should  get  on  with  them  ? 
My  dear  young  lady,  we  should  get  on  as  you  do  !' 

If  Olive  had  answers,  so  had  Mrs.  Burrage ;  she  had 
still  an  answer  when  her  visitor,  taking  up  the  supposition 
that  it  was  in  her  power  to  dispose  in  any  manner  whatso- 
ever of  Vere:ia,  declared  that  she  didn't  know  why  Mrs. 
Burrage  addressed  herself  to  her>  that  Miss  Tarrant  was  free 
as  air,  that  her  future  was  in  her  own  hands,  that  such  a 
matter  as  this  was  a  kind  of  thing  with  which  it  could  never 
occur  to  one  to  interfere.  '  Dear  Miss  Chancellor,  we 
don't  ask  you  to  interfere.  The  only  thing  we  ask  of  you 
is  simply  not  to  interfere.' 

'And  have  you  sent  for  me  only  for  that ?' 

'  For  that,  and  for  what  I  hinted  at  in  my  note ;  that 
you  would  really  exercise  your  influence  with  Miss  Tarrant 
to  induce  her  to  come  to  us  now  for  a  week  or  two.  That 
is  really,  after  all,  the  main  thing  I  ask.  Lend  her  to  us, 
here,  for  a  little  while,  and  we  will  take  care  of  the  rest. 
That  sounds  conceited — but  she  would have  a  good  time.' 

'  She  d  jesn't  live  for  that,'  said  Olive. 

'What  I  mean  is  that  she  should  deliver  an  address 
every  nig'it!'  Mrs.  Burrage  returned,  smiling. 


xxxii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  311 

*  I  think  you  try  to  prove  too  much.  You  do  believe — 
though  you  pretend  you  don't — that  I  control  her  actions, 
and  as  far  as  possible  her  desires,  and  that  I  am  jealous  of 
any  other  relations  she  may  possibly  form.  I  can  imagine 
that  we  may  perhaps  have  that  air,  though  it  only  proves 
how  little  such  an  association  as  ours  is  understood,  and 
how  superficial  is  still' — Olive  felt  that  her  *  still'  was  really 
historical — '  the  interpretation  of  many  of  the  elements  in 
the  activity  of  women,  how  much  the  public  conscience  with 
regard  to  them  needs  to  be  educated.  Your  conviction 
with  respect  to  my  attitude  being  what  I  believe  it  to  be,' 
Miss  Chancellor  went  on,  '  I  am  surprised  at  your  not 
perceiving  how  little  it  is  in  my  interest  to  deliver  my — my 
victim  up  to  you.' 

If  we  were  at  this  moment  to  take,  in  a  single  glance, 
an  inside  view  of  Mrs.  Burrage  (a  liberty  we  have  not  yet 
ventured  on),  I  suspect  we  should  find  that  she  was  con- 
siderably exasperated  at  her  visitor's  superior  tone,  at  seeing 
herself  regarded  by  this  dry,  shy,  obstinate,  provincial 
young  woman  as  superficial.  If  she  liked  Verena  very 
nearly  as  much  as  she  tried  to  convince  Miss  Chancellor, 
she  was  conscious  of  disliking  Miss  Chancellor  more  than 
she  should  probably  ever  be  able  to  reveal  to  Verena.  It 
was  doubtless  partly  her  irritation  that  found  a  voice  as  she 
said,  after  a  self-administered  pinch  of  caution  not  to  say 
too  much,  '  Of  course  it  would  be  absurd  in  us  to  assume 
that  Miss  Tarrant  would  find  my  son  irresistible,  especially 
as  she  has  already  refused  him.  But  even  if  she  should 
remain  obdurate,  should  you  consider  yourself  quite  safe  as 
regards  others?' 

The  manner  in  which  Miss  Chancellor  rose  from  her 
chair  on  hearing  these  words  showed  her  hostess  that  if  she 
had  wished  to  take  a  little  revenge  by  frightening  her,  the 
experiment  was  successful.  'What  others  do  you  mean?' 
Olive  asked,  standing  very  straight,  and  turning  down  her 
eyes  as  from  a  great  height. 

Mrs.  Burrage — since  we  have  begun  to  look  into  her 
mind  we  may  continue  the  process — had  not  meant  any 
one  in  particular ;  but  a  train  of  association  was  suddenly 
kindled  in  her  thought  by  the  flash  of  the  girl's  resentment. 


312  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

She  remembered  the  gentleman  who  had  come  up  to  her 
in  the  music-room,  after  Miss  Tarrant's  address,  while  she 
was  talking  with  Olive,  and  to  whom  that  young  lady  had 
given  so  cold  a  welcome.  *  I  don't  mean  any  one  in  par- 
ticular ;  but,  for  instance,  there  is  the  young  man  to  whom 
she  asked  me  to  send  an  invitation  to  my  party,  and  who 
looked  to  me  like  a  possible  admirer.'  Mrs.  Burrage  also 
got  up ;  then  she  stood  a  moment,  closer  to  her  visitor. 
'  Don't  you  think  it's  a  good  deal  to  expect  that,  young, 
pretty,  attractive,  clever,  charming  as  she  is,  you  should  be 
able  to  keep  her  always,  to  exclude  other  affections,  to  cut 
off  a  whole  side  of  life,  to  defend  her  against  dangers — if 
you  call  them  dangers — to  which  every  young  woman  who 
is  not  positively  repulsive  is  exposed?  My  dear  young 
lady,  I  wonder  if  I  might  give  you  three  words  of  advice?' 
Mrs.  Burrage  did  not  wait  till  Olive  had  answered  this 
inquiry;  she  went  on  quickly,  with  her  air  of  knowing* 
exactly  what  she  wanted  to  say  and  feeling  at  the  same 
time  that,  good  as  it  might  be,  the  manner  of  saying  it, 
like  the  manner  of  saying  most  other  things,  was  not  worth 
troubling  much  about.  '  Don't  attempt  the  impossible. 
You  have  got  hold  of  a  good  thing ;  don't  spoil  it  by  trying 
to  stretch  it  too  far.  If  you  don't  take  the  better,  perhaps 
you  will  have  to  take  the  worse ;  if  it's  safety  you  want  I 
should  think  she  was  much  safer  with  my  son — for  with  us 
you  know  the  worst — than  as  a  possible  prey  to  adventurers, 
to  exploiters,  or  to  people  who,  once  they  had  got  hold  of 
her,  would  shut  her  up  altogether.' 

Olive  dropped  her  eyes ;  she  couldn't  endure  Mrs. 
Burrage's  horrible  expression  of  being  near  the  mark,  her 
look  of  worldly  cleverness,  of  a  confidence  born  of  much 
experience.  She  felt  that  nothing  would  be  spared  her, 
that  she  should  have  to  go  to  the  end,  that  this  ordeal  also 
must  be  faced,  and  that,  in  particular,  there  was  a  detest- 
able wisdom  in  her  hostess's  advice.  She  was  conscious, 
however,  of  no  obligation  to  recognise  it  then  and  there ; 
she  wanted  to  get  off,  and  even  to  carry  Mrs.  Burrage's 
sapient  words  along  with  her — to  hurry  to  some  place  where 
she  might  be  alone  and  think.  '  I  don't  know  why  you 
have  thought  it  right  to  send  for  me  only  to  say  this.  I 


xxxii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  313 

take  no  interest  whatever  in  your  son — in  his  settling  in 
life.'  And  she  gathered  her  mantle  more  closely  about 
her,  turning  away. 

*  It  is  exceedingly  kind  of  you  to  have  come,'  said  Mrs. 
Burrage,  imperturbably.  '  Think  of  what  I  have  said ;  I 
am  sure  you  won't  feel  that  you  have  wasted  your  hour.' 

'  I  have  a  great  many  things  to  think  of ! '  Olive  exclaimed, 
insincerely;  for  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Burrage's  ideas  would 
haunt  her. 

'  And  tell  her  that  if  she  will  make  us  the  little  visit,  all 
New  York  shall  sit  at  her  feet ! ' 

That  was  what  Olive  wanted,  and  yet  it  seemed  a 
mockery  to  hear  Mrs.  Burrage  say  it.  Miss  Chancellor 
retreated,  making  no  response  even  when  her  hostess  de- 
clared again  that  she  was  under  great  obligations  to  her  for 
coming.  When  she  reached  the  street  she  found  she  was 
deeply  agitated,  but  not  with  a  sense  of  weakness;  she 
hurried  along,  excited  and  dismayed,  feeling  that  her  in- 
sufferable conscience  was  bristling  like  some  irritated  animal, 
that  a  magnificent  offer  had  really  been  made  to  Verena, 
and  that  there  was  no  way  for  her  to  persuade  herself  she 
might  be  silent  about  it.  Of  course,  if  Verena  should  be 
tempted  by  the  idea  of  being  made  so  much  of  by  the 
Burrages,  the  danger  of  Basil  Ransom  getting  any  kind  of 
hold  on  her  would  cease  to  be  pressing.  That  was  what 
was  present  to  Olive  as  she  walked  along,  and  that  was 
what  made  her  nervous,  conscious  only  of  this  problem  that 
had  suddenly  turned  the  bright  day  to  grayness,  heedless  of 
the  sophisticated -looking  people  who  passed  her  on  the 
wide  Fifth  Avenue  pavement.  It  had  risen  in  her  mind 
the  day  before,  planted  first  by  Mrs.  Burrage's  note ;  and 
then,  as  we  know,  she  had  vaguely  entertained  the  concep- 
tion, asking  Verena  whether  she  would  make  the  visit  if  it 
were  again  to  be  pressed  upon  them.  It  had  been  pressed, 
certainly,  and  the  terms  of  the  problem  were  now  so  much 
sharper  that  they  seemed  cruel.  What  had  been  in  her 
own  mind  was  that  if  Verena  should  appear  to  lend  herself 
to  the  Burrages  Basil  Ransom  might  be  discouraged — 
might  think  that,  shabby  and  poor,  there  was  no  chance  for 
him  as  against  people  with  every  advantage  of  fortune  and 


314  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxn. 

position.  She  didn't  see  him  relax  his  purpose  so  easily; 
she  knew  she  didn't  believe  he  was  of  that  pusillanimous 
fibre.  Still,  it  was  a  chance,  and  any  chance  that  might 
help  her  had  been  worth  considering.  At  present  she  saw 
it  was  a  question  not  of  Verena's  lending  herself,  but  of  a 
positive  gift,  or  at  least  of  a  bargain  in  which  the  terms 
would  be  immensely  liberal.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
use  the  Burrages  as  a  shelter  on  the  assumption  that  they 
were  not  dangerous,  for  they  became  dangerous  from  the 
moment  they  set  up  as  sympathisers,  took  the  ground  that 
what  they  offered  the  girl  was  simply  a  boundless  oppor- 
tunity. It  came  back  to  Olive,  again  and  again,  that  this 
was,  and  could  only  be,  fantastic  and  false ;  but  it  was 
always  possible  that  Verena  might  not  think  it  so,  might 
trust  them  all  the  way.  When  Miss  Chancellor  had  a  pair 
of  alternatives  to  consider,  a  question  of  duty  to  study,  she 
put  a  kind  of  passion  into  it— felt,  above  all,  that  the  matter 
must  be  settled  that  very  hour,  before  anything  in  life  could 
go  on.  It  seemed  to  her  at  present  that  she  couldn't  re- 
enter  the  house  in  Tenth  Street  without  having  decided 
first  whether  she  might  trust  the  Burrages  or  not.  By 
'  trust '  them,  she  meant  trust  them  to  fail  in  winning 
Verena  over,  while  at  the  same  time  they  put  Basil  Ransom 
on  a  false  scent.  Olive  was  able  to  say  to  herself  that  he 
probably  wouldn't  have  the  hardihood  to  push  after  her 
into  those  gilded  saloons,  which,  in  any  event,  would  be 
closed  to  him  as  soon  as  the  mother  and  son  should  dis- 
cover what  he  wanted.  She  even  asked  herself  whether 
Verena  would  not  be  still  better  defended  from  the  young 
Southerner  in  New  York,  amid  complicated  hospitalities, 
than  in  Boston  with  a  cousin  of  the  enemy.  She  continued 
to  walk  down  the  Fifth  Avenue,  without  noticing  the  cross- 
streets,  and  after  a  while  became  conscious  that  she  was 
approaching  Washington  Square.  By  this  time  she  had 
also  definitely  reasoned  it  out  that  Basil  Ransom  and  Henry 
Burrage  could  not  both  capture  Miss  Tarrant,  that  therefore 
there  could  not  be  two  dangers,  but  only  one ;  that  this  was 
a  good  deal  gained,  and  that  it  behoved  her  to  determine 
which  peril  had  most  reality,  in  order  that  she  might  deal 
with  that  one  only.  She  held  her  way  to  the  Square,  which, 


xxxir.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  315 

as  all  the  world  knows,  is  of  great  extent  and  open  to  the 
encircling  street.  The  trees  and  grass-plats  had  begun  to 
bud  and  sprout,  the  fountains  plashed  in  the  sunshine,  the 
children  of  the  quarter,  both  the  dingier  types  from  the 
south  side,  who  played  games  that  required  much  chalking 
of  the  paved  walks,  and  much  sprawling  and  crouching 
there,  under  the  feet  of  passers,  and  the  little  curled  and 
feathered  people  who  drove  their  hoops  under  the  eyes  of 
French  nursemaids — all  the  infant  population  filled  the 
vernal  air  with  small  sounds  which  had  a  crude,  tender 
quality,  like  the  leaves  and  the  thin  herbage.  Olive 
wandered  through  the  place,  and  ended  by  sitting  down  on 
one  of  the  continuous  benches.  It  was  a  long  time  since 
she  had  done  anything  so  vague,  so  wasteful.  There  were 
a  dozen  things  which,  as  she  was  staying  over  in  New  York, 
she  ought  to  do  ;  but  she  forgot  them,  or,  if  she  thought  of 
them,  felt  that  they  were  now  of  no  moment.  She  re- 
mained in  her  place  an  hour,  brooding,  tremulous,  turning 
over  and  over  certain  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  face  to  face  with  a  crisis  of  her  destiny,  and  that  she 
must  not  shrink  from  seeing  it  exactly  as  it  was.  Before 
she  rose  to  return  to  Tenth  Street  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  there  was  no  menace  so  great  as  the  menace  of 
Basil  Ransom ;  she  had  accepted  in  thought  any  arrange- 
ment which  would  deliver  her  from  that.  If  the  Burrages 
were  to  take  Verena  they  would  take  her  from  Olive  im- 
measurably less  than  he  would  do ;  it  was  from  him,  from 
him  they  would  take  her  most.  She  walked  back  to  her 
boarding  house,  and  the  servant  who  admitted  her  said,  in 
answer  to  her  inquiry  as  to  whether  Verena  were  at  home, 
that  Miss  Tarrant  had  gone  out  with  the  gentleman  who 
called  in  the  morning,  and  had  not  yet  come  in.  Olive 
stood  staring ;  the  clock  in  the  hall  marked  three. 


XXXIII. 

1  COME  out  with  me,  Miss  Tarrant ;  come  out  with  me.  Do 
come  out  with  me.'  That  was  what  Basil  Ransom  had 
been  saying  to  Verena  when  they  stood  where  Olive  per- 
ceived them,  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  It  had  of 
course  taken  considerable  talk  to  lead  up  to  this ;  for  the 
tone,  even  more  than  the  words,  indicated  a  large  increase 
of  intimacy.  Verena  was  mindful  of  this  when  he  spoke ; 
and  it  frightened  her  a  little,  made  her  uneasy,  which  was 
one  of  the  reasons  why  she  got  up  from  her  chair  and  went 
to  the  window — an  inconsequent  movement,  inasmuch  as 
her  wish  was  to  impress  upon  him  that  it  was  impossible 
she  should  comply  with  his  request.  It  would  have  served 
this  end  much  better  for  her  to  sit,  very  firmly,  in  her  place. 
He  made  her  nervous  and  restless  ;  she  was  beginning 
to  perceive  that  he  produced  a  peculiar  effect  upon  her. 
Certainly,  she  had  been  out  with  him  at  home  the  very  first 
time  he  called  upon  her ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  to  make 
an  important  difference  that  she  herself  should  then  have 
proposed  the  walk — simply  because  it  was  the  easiest  thing 
to  do  when  a  person  came  to  see  you  in  Monadnoc  Place. 

They  had  gone  out  that  time  because  she  wanted  to,  not 
because  he  did.  And  then  it  was  one  thing  for  her  to  stroll 
with  him  round  Cambridge,  where  she  knew  every  step  and 
had  the  confidence  and  freedom  which  came  from  being  on 
her  own  ground,  and  the  pretext,  which  was  perfectly 
natural,  of  wanting  to  show  him  the  colleges,  and  quite 
another  thing  to  go  wandering  with  him  through  the  streets 
of  this  great  strange  city,  which,  attractive,  delightful  as  it 
was,  had  not  the  suitableness  even  of  being  his  home,  not 
his  real  one.  He  wanted  to  show  her  something,  he  wanted 
to  show  her  everything  j  but  she  was  not  sure  now — after 


xxxiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  317 

an  hour's  talk — that  she  particularly  wanted  to  see  anything 
more  that  he  could  show  her.  He  had  shown  her  a  great 
deal  while  he  sat  there,  especially  what  balderdash  he 
thought  it — the  whole  idea  of  women's  being  equal  to  men. 
He  seemed  to  have  come  only  for  that,  for  he  was  all  the 
while  revolving  round  it ;  she  couldn't  speak  of  anything 
but  what  he  brought  it  back  to  the  question  of  some  new 
truth  like  that.  He  didn't  say  so  in  so  many  words ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  was  tremendously  insinuating  and  satirical, 
and  pretended  to  think  she  had  proved  all  and  a  great  deal 
more  than  she  wanted  to  prove ;  but  his  exaggeration,  and 
the  way  he  rung  all  the  changes  on  two  or  three  of  the 
points  she  had  made  at  Mrs.  Burrage's,  were  just  the  sign 
that  he  was  a  scoffer  of  scoffers.  He  wouldn't  do  anything 
but  laugh ;  he  seemed  to  think  that  he  might  laugh  at  her 
all  day  without  her  taking  offence.  Well,  he  might  if  it 
amused  him ;  but  she  didn't  see  why  she  should  ramble 
round  New  York  with  him  to  give  him  his  opportunity. 

She  had  told  him,  and  she  had  told  Olive,  that  she  was 
determined  to  produce  some  effect  on  him ;  but  now, 
suddenly,  she  felt  differently  about  that — she  ceased  to  care 
whether  she  produced  any  effect  or  not.  She  didn't  see 
why  she  should  take  him  so  seriously,  when  he  wouldn't 
take  her  so;  that  is,  wouldn't  take  her  ideas.  She  had 
guessed  before  that  he  didn't  want  to  discuss  them ;  this 
had  been  in  her  mind  when  she  said  to  him  at  Cambridge 
that  his  interest  in  her  was  personal,  not  controversial. 
Then  she  had  simply  meant  that,  as  an  inquiring  young 
Southerner,  he  had  wanted  to  see  what  a  bright  New  Eng- 
land girl  was  like ;  but  since  then  it  had  become  a  little 
more  clear  to  her — her  short  talk  with  Ransom  at  Mrs. 
Burrage's  threw  some  light  upon  the  question — what  the 
personal  interest  of  a  young  Southerner  (however  inquiring 
merely)  might  amount  to.  Did  he  too  want  to  make  love 
to  her  ?  This  idea  made  Verena  rather  impatient,  weary  in 
advance.  The  thing  she  desired  least  in  the  world  was  to 
be  put  into  the  wrong  with  Olive ;  for  she  had  certainly 
given  her  ground  to  believe  (not  only  in  their  scene  the 
night  before,  which  was  a  simple  repetition,  but  all  along, 
from  the  very  first),  that  she  really  had  an  interest  which 


3i8  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxni. 

would  transcend  any  attraction  coming  from  such  a  source 
as  that.  If  yesterday  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  should  like 
to  struggle  with  Mr.  Ransom,  to  refute  and  convince  him, 
she  had  this  morning  gone  into  the  parlour  to  receive  him 
with  the  idea  that,  now  they  were  alone  together  in  a  quiet, 
favourable  place,  he  would  perhaps  take  up  the  different 
points  of  her  address  one  by  one,  as  several  gentlemen  had 
done  after  hearing  her  on  other  occasions.  There  was 
nothing  she  liked  so  well  as  that,  and  Olive  never  had  any- 
thing to  say  against  it.  But  he  hadn't  taken  up  anything ; 
he  had  simply  laughed  and  chaffed,  and  unrolled  a  string 
of  queer  fancies  about  the  delightful  way  women  would  fix 
things  when,  as  she  said  in  her  address,  they  should  get  out 
of  their  box.  He  kept  talking  about  the  box ;  he  seemed 
as  if  he  wouldn't  let  go  that  simile.  He  said  that  he  had 
come  to  look  at  her  through  the  glass  sides,  and  if  he  wasn't 
afraid  of  hurting  her  he  would  smash  them  in.  He  was 
determined  to  find  the  key  that  would  open  it,  if  he  had 
to  look  for  it  all  over  the  world ;  it  was  tantalising  only  to 
be  able  to  talk  to  her  through  the  keyhole.  If  he  didn't 
want  to  take  up  the  subject,  he  at  least  wanted  to  take  her 
up — to  keep  his  hand  upon  her  as  long  as  he  could.  Verena 
had  had  no  such  sensation  since  the  first  day  she  went  in 
to  see  Olive  Chancellor,  when  she  felt  herself  plucked  from 
the  earth  and  borne  aloft. 

'  It's  the  most  lovely  day,  and  I  should  like  so  much  to 
show  you  New  York,  as  you  showed  me  your  beautiful 
Harvard/  Basil  Ransom  went  on,  pressing  her  to  accede  to 
his  proposal.  '  You  said  that  was  the  only  thing  you  could 
do  for  me  then,  and  so  this  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do  for 
you  here.  It  would  be  odious  to  see  you  go  away,  giving 
me  nothing  but  this  stiff  little  talk  in  a  boarding-house 
parlour.' 

'Mercy,  if  you  call  this  stiff!'  Verena  exclaimed,  laugh- 
ing, while  at  that  moment  Olive  passed  out  of  the  house 
and  descended  the  steps  before  her  eyes. 

'  My  poor  cousin's  stiff;  she  won't  turn  her  head  a  hair's 
breadth  to  look  at  us,'  said  the  young  man.  Olive's  figure, 
as  she  went  by,  was,  for  Verena,  full  of  a  queer,  touching, 
tragic  expression,  saying  ever  so  many  things,  both  familiar 


xxxiii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  319 

and  strange ;  and  Basil  Ransom's  companion  privately  re- 
marked how  little  men  knew  about  women,  or  indeed  about 
what  was  really  delicate,  that  he,  without  any  cruel  inten- 
tion, should  attach  an  idea  of  ridicule  to  such  an  incarnation 
of  the  pathetic,  should  speak  rough,  derisive  words  about 
it.  Ransom,  in  truth,  to-day,  was  not  disposed  to  be  very 
scrupulous,  and  he  only  wanted  to  get  rid  of  Olive  Chan- 
cellor, whose  image,  at  last,  decidedly  bothered  and  bored 
him.  He  was  glad  to  see  her  go  out ;  but  that  was  not 
sufficient,  she  would  come  back  quick  enough;  the  place 
itself  contained  her,  expressed  her.  For  to-day  he  wanted 
to  take  possession  of  Verena,  to  carry  her  to  a  distance,  to 
reproduce  a  little  the  happy  conditions  they  had  enjoyed 
the  day  of  his  visit  to  Cambridge.  And  the  fact  that  in 
the  nature  of  things  it  could  only  be  for  to-day  made  his 
desire  more  keen,  more  full  of  purpose.  He  had  thought 
over  the  whole  question  in  the  last  forty-eight  hours,  and 
it  was  his  belief  that  he  saw  things  in  their  absolute  reality. 
He  took  a  greater  interest  in  her  than  he  had  taken  in  any 
one  yet,  but  he  proposed,  after  to-day,  not  to  let  that  acci- 
dent make  any  difference.  This  was  precisely  what  gave 
its  high  value  to  the  present  limited  occasion.  He  was  too 
shamefully  poor,  too  shabbily  and  meagrely  equipped,  to 
have  the  right  to  talk  of  marriage  to  a  girl  in  Verena's  very 
peculiar  position.  He  understood  now  how  good  that 
position  was,  from  a  worldly  point  of  view  \  her  address  at 
Mrs.  Burrage's  gave  him  something  definite  to  go  upon, 
showed  him  what  she  could  do,  that  people  would  flock  in 
thousands  to  an  exhibition  so  charming  (and  small  blame 
to  them) ;  that  she  might  easily  have  a  big  career,  like  that 
of  a  distinguished  actress  or  singer,  and  that  she  would 
make  money  in  quantities  only  slightly  smaller  than  per- 
formers of  that  kind.  Who  wouldn't  pay  half  a  dollar  for 
such  an  hour  as  he  had  passed  at  Mrs.  Burrage's  ?  The 
sort  of  thing  she  was  able  to  do,  to  say,  was  an  article  for 
which  there  was  more  and  more  demand — fluent,  pretty, 
third-rate  palaver,  conscious  or  unconscious  perfected  hum- 
bug ;  the  stupid,  gregarious,  gullible  public,  the  enlightened 
democracy  of  his  native  land,  could  swallow  unlimited 
draughts  of  it.  He  was  sure  she  could  go,  like  that,  for 


320  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxin. 

several  years,  with  her  portrait  in  the  druggists'  windows 
and  her  posters  on  the  fences,  and  during  that  time  would 
make  a  fortune  sufficient  to  keep  her  in  affluence  for  ever- 
more. I  shall  perhaps  expose  our  young  man  to  the 
contempt  of  superior  minds  if  I  say  that  all  this  seemed  to 
him  an  insuperable  impediment  to  his  making  up  to  Verena. 
His  scruples  were^  doubtless  begotten  of  a  false  pride,  a 
sentiment  in  whicri  there  was  a  thread  of  moral  tinsel,  as 
there  was  in  the  Southern  idea  of  chivalry;  but  he  felt 
ashamed  of  his  own  poverty,  the  positive  flatness  of  his 
situation,  when  he  thought  of  the  gilded  nimbus  that  sur- 
rounded the  protegee  of  Mrs.  Burrage.  This  shame  was 
possible  to  him  even  while  he  was  conscious  of  what  a 
mean  business  it  was  to  practise  upon  human  imbecility, 
how  much  better  it  was  even  to  be  seedy  and  obscure, 
discouraged  about  one's  self.  He  had  been  born  to  the 
prospect  of  a  fortune,  and  in  spite  of  the  years  of  misery 
that  followed  the  war  had  never  rid  himself  of  the  belief 
that  a  gentleman  who  desired  to  unite  himself  to  a  charming 
girl  couldn't  yet  ask  her  to  come  and  live  with  him  in 
sordid  conditions.  On  the  other  hand  it  was  no  possible 
basis  of  matrimony  that  Verena  should  continue  for  his 
advantage  the  exercise  of  her  remunerative  profession;  if 
he  should  become  her  husband  he  should  know  a  way  to 
strike  her  dumb.  In  the  midst  of  this  an  irrepressible 
desire  urged  him  on  to  taste,  for  once,  deeply,  all  that  he 
was  condemned  to  lose,  or  at  any  rate  forbidden  to  attempt 
to  gain.  To  spend  a  day  with  her  and  not  to  see  her  again 
— that  presented  itself  to  him  at  once  as  the  least  and  the 
most  that  was  possible.  He  did  not  need  even  to  remind 
himself  that  young  Mr.  Burrage  was  able  to  offer  her 
everything  he  lacked,  including  the  most  amiable  adhesion 
to  her  views. 

*  It  will  be  charming  in  the  Park  to-day.  Why  not  take 
a  stroll  with  me  there  as  I  did  with  you  in  the  little  park  at 
Harvard?'  he  asked,  when  Olive  had  disappeared. 

'  Oh,  I  have  seen  it,  very  well,  in  every  corner.  A  friend 
of  mine  kindly  took  me  to  drive  there  yesterday,'  Verena 
said. 

4  A  friend? — do  you  mean  Mr.  Burrage?'     And  Ran- 


xxxm.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  321 

som  stood  looking  at  her  with  his  extraordinary  eyes.  '  Of 
course,  I  haven't  a  vehicle  to  drive  you  in ;  but  we  can  sit 
on  a  bench  and  talk.'  She  didn't  say  it  was  Mr.  Burrage, 
but  she  was  unable  to  say  it  was  not,  and  something  in  her 
face  showed  him  that  he  had  guessed.  So  he  went  on : 
'  Is  it  only  with  him  you  can  go  out  ?  Won't  he  like  it, 
and  may  you  only  do  what  he  likes  ?  Mrs.  Luna  told  me 
he  wants  to  marry  you,  and  I  saw  at  his  mother's  how  he 
stuck  to  you.  If  you  are  going  to  marry  him,  you  can 
drive  with  him  every  day  in  the  year,  and  that's  just  a 
reason  for  your  giving  me  an  hour  or  two  now,  before  it 
becomes  impossible.'  He  didn't  mind  much  what  he  said 
— it  had  been  his  plan  not  to  mind  much  to-day — and  so 
long  as  he  made  her  do  what  he  wanted  he  didn't  care 
much  how  he  did  it.  But  he  saw  that  his  words  brought 
the  colour  to  her  face ;  she  stared,  surprised  at  his  freedom 
and  familiarity.  He  went  on,  dropping  the  hardness,  the 
irony  of  which  he  was  conscious,  out  of  his  tone.  '  I  know 
it's  no  business  of  mine  whom  you  marry,  or  even  whom 
you  drive  with,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  seem  indiscreet 
and  obtrusive ;  but  I  would  give  anything  just  to  detach 
you  a  little  from  your  ties,  your  belongings,  and  feel  for  an 
hour  or  two,  as  if — as  if '  And  he  paused. 

'As  if  what?'  she  asked,  very  seriously. 

1  As  if  there  were  no  such  person  as  Mr.  Burrage — as 
Miss  Chancellor — in  the  whole  place.'  This  had  not  been 
what  he  was  going  to  say ;  he  used  different  words. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  why  you  speak  of  other 
persons.  I  can  do  as  I  like,  perfectly.  But  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  take  so  for  granted  that  that  would  be  it !' 
Verena  spoke  these  words  not  out  of  coquetry,  or  to  make 
him  beg  her  more  for  a  favour,  but  because  she  was  think- 
ing, and  she  wanted  to  gain  a  moment.  His  allusion  to 
Henry  Burrage  touched  her,  his  belief  that  she  had  been  in 
the  Park  under  circumstances  more  agreeable  than  those 
he  proposed.  They  were  not ;  somehow,  she  wanted  him 
to  know  that.  To  wander  there  with  a  companion,  slowly 
stopping,  lounging,  looking  at  the  animals  as  she  had  seen 
the  people  do  the  day  before ;  to  sit  down  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  part  where  there  were  distant  views,  which  she  had 


322  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxm. 

noticed  from  her  high  perch  beside  Henry  Burrage — she 
had  to  look  down  so,  it  made  her  feel  unduly  fine :  that 
was  much  more  to  her  taste,  much  more  her  idea  of  true 
enjoyment.  It  came  over  her  that  Mr.  Ransom  had  given 
up  his  work  to  come  to  her  at  such  an  hour  \  people  of  his 
kind,  in  the  morning,  were  always  getting  their  living,  and 
it  was  only  for  Mr.  Burrage  that  it  didn't  matter,  inasmuch 
as  he  had  no  profession.  Mr.  Ransom  simply  wanted  to 
give  up  his  whole  day.  That  pressed  upon  her ;  she  was, 
as  the  most  good-natured  girl  in  the  world,  too  entirely 
tender  not  to  feel  any  sacrifice  that  was  made  for  her ;  she 
had  always  done  everything  that  people  asked.  Then,  if 
Olive  should  make  that  strange  arrangement  for  her  to  go 
to  Mrs.  Burrage's  he  would  take  it  as  a  proof  that  there  was 
something  serious  between  her  and  the  gentleman  of  the 
house,  in  spite  of  anything  she  might  say  to  the  contrary ; 
moreover,  if  she  should  go  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  receive 
Mr.  Ransom  there.  Olive  would  trust  her  not  to,  and  she 
must  certainly,  in  future,  not  disappoint  Olive  nor  keep 
anything  back  from  her,  whatever  she  might  have  done  in 
the  past.  Besides,  she  didn't  want  to  do  that ;  she  thought 
it  much  better  not.  It  was  this  idea  of  the  episode  which 
was  possibly  in  store  for  her  in  New  York,  and  from  which 
her  present  companion  would  be  so  completely  excluded, 
that  worked  upon  her  now  with  a  rapid  transition,  urging 
her  to  grant  him  what  he  asked,  so  that  in  advance  she 
should  have  made  up  for  what  she  might  not  do  for  him 
later.  But  most  of  all  she  disliked  his  thinking  she  was 
engaged  to  some  one.  She  didn't  know,  it  is  true,  why 
she  should  mind  it ;  and  indeed,  at  this  moment,  our  young 
lady's  feelings  were  not  in  any  way  clear  to  her.  She  did 
not  see  what  was  the  use  of  letting  her  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  Ransom  become  much  closer  (since  his  interest  did 
really  seem  personal);  and  yet  she  presently  asked  him 
why  he  wanted  her  to  go  out  with  him,  and  whether  there 
was  anything  particular  he  wanted  to  say  to  her  (there  was 
no  one  like  Verena  for  making  speeches  apparently  flirta- 
tious, with  the  best  faith  and  the  most  innocent  intention  in 
the  world) ;  as  if  that  would  not  be  precisely  a  reason  to 
make  it  well  she  should  get  rid  of  him  altogether. 


XXXIIT.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  323 

'  Of  course  I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  you — I 
have  a  tremendous  lot  to  say  to  you!'  the  young  man 
exclaimed.  'Far  more  than  I  can  say  in  this  stuck-up, 
confined  room,  which  is  public,  too,  so  that  any  one  may 
come  in  from  one  moment  to  another.  Besides,'  he  added, 
sophistically,  '  it  isn't  proper  for  me  to  pay  a  visit  of  three 
hours.' 

Verena  did  not  take  up  the  sophistry,  nor  ask  him 
whether  it  would  be  more  proper  for  her  to  ramble  about 
the  city  with  him  for  an  equal  period ;  she  only  said,  '  Is  it 
something  that  I  shall  care  to  hear,  or  that  will  do  me  any 
good?' 

'  Well,  I  hope  it  will  do  you  good ;  but  I  don't  suppose 
you  will  care  much  to  hear  it.'  Basil  Ransom  hesitated  a 
moment,  smiling  at  her ;  then  he  went  on  :  '  It's  to  tell  you, 
once  for  all,  how  much  I  really  do  differ  from  you  !'  He 
said  this  at  a  venture,  but  it  was  a  happy  inspiration. 

If  it  was  only  that,  Verena  thought  she  might  go,  for 
that  was  not  personal.  '  Well,  I'm  glad  you  care  so  much,' 
she  answered,  musingly.  But  she  had  another  scruple  still, 
and  she  expressed  it  in  saying  that  she  should  like  Olive 
very  much  to  find  her  when  she  came  in. 

'  That's  all  very  well,'  Ransom  returned ;  '  but  does  she 
think  that  she  only  has  a  right  to  go  out?  Does  she 
expect  you  to  keep  the  house  because  she's  abroad?  If 
she  stays  out  long  enough,  she  will  find  you  when  she 
comes  in.' 

'  Her  going  out  that  way — it  proves  that  she  trusts  me,' 
Verena  said,  with  a  candour  which  alarmed  her  as  soon  as 
she  had  spoken. 

Her  alarm  was  just,  for  Basil  Ransom  instantly  caught 
up  her  words,  with  a  great  mocking  amazement  '  Trusts 
you  ?  and  why  shouldn't  she  trust  you  ?  Are  you  a  little 
girl  of  ten  and  she  your  governess?  Haven't  you  any 
liberty  at  all,  and  is  she  always  watching  you  and  holding 
you  to  an  account?  Have  you  such  vagabond  instincts 
that  you  are  only  thought  safe  when  you  are  between  four 
walls  ?'  Ransom  was  going  on  to  speak,  in  the  same  tone, 
of  her  having  felt  it  necessary  to  keep  Olive  in  ignorance  of 
his  visit  to  Cambridge — a  fact  they  had  touched  on,  by 


324  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxm. 

implication,  in  their  short  talk  at  Mrs.  Burrage's ;  but  in  a 
moment  he  saw  that  he  had  said  enough.  As  for  Verena, 
she  had  said  more  than  she  meant,  and  the  simplest  way  to 
unsay  it  was  to  go  and  get  her  bonnet  and  jacket  and  let 
him  take  her  where  he  liked.  Five  minutes  later  he  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  parlour,  waiting  while  she  pre- 
pared herself  to  go  out. 

They  went  up  to  the  Central  Park  by  the  elevated 
railway,  and  Verena  reflected,  as  they  proceeded,  that  any- 
way Olive  was  probably  disposing  of  her  somehow  at  Mrs. 
Burrage's,  and  that  therefore  there  wasn't  much  harm  in 
her  just  taking  this  little  run  on  her  own  responsibility, 
especially  as  she  should  only  be  out  an  hour — which  would 
be  just  the  duration  of  Olive's  absence.  The  beauty  of  the 
*  elevated '  was  that  it  took  you  up  to  the  Park  and  brought 
you  back  in  a  few  minutes,  and  you  had  all  the  rest  of  the 
hour  to  walk  about  and  see  the  place.  It  was  so  pleasant 
now  that  one  was  glad  to  see  it  twice  over.  The  long, 
narrow  inclosure,  across  which  the  houses  in  the  streets  that 
border  it  look  at  each  other  with  their  glittering  windows, 
bristled  with  the  raw  delicacy  of  April,  and,  in  spite  of  its 
rockwork  grottoes  and  tunnels,  its  pavilions  and  statues,  its 
too  numerous  paths  and  pavements,  lakes  too  big  for  the 
landscape  and  bridges  too  big  for  the  lakes,  expressed  all 
the  fragrance  and  freshness  of  the  most  charming  moment 
of  the  year.  Once  Verena  was  fairly  launched  the  spirit  of 
the  day  took  possession  of  her ;  she  was  glad  to  have  come, 
she  forgot  about  Olive,  enjoyed  the  sense  of  wandering  in 
the  great  city  with  a  remarkable  young  man  who  would 
take  beautiful  care  of  her,  while  no  one  else  in  the  world 
knew  where  she  was.  It  was  very  different  from  her  drive 
yesterday  with  Mr.  Burrage,  but  it  was  more  free,  more 
intense,  more  full  of  amusing  incident  and  opportunity. 
She  could  stop  and  look  at  everything  now,  and  indulge  all 
her  curiosities,  even  the  most  childish ;  she  could  feel  as  if 
she  were  out  for  the  day,  though  she  was  not  really — as  she 
had  not  done  since  she  was  a  little  girl,  when  in  the  country, 
once  or  twice,  when  her  father  and  mother  had  drifted 
into  summer  quarters,  gone  out  of  town  like  people  of 
fashion,  she  had,  with  a  chance  companion,  strayed  far 


xxxni.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  325 

from  home,  spent  hours  in  the  woods  and  fields,  looking 
for  raspberries  and  playing  she  was  a  gipsy.  Basil  Ransom 
had  begun  with  proposing,  strenuously,  that  she  should 
come  somewhere  and  have  luncheon ;  he  had  brought  her 
out.half  an  hour  before  that  meal  was  served  in  West  Tenth 
Street,  and  he  maintained  that  he  owed  her  the  compensa- 
tion of  seeing  that  she  was  properly  fed ;  he  knew  a  very 
quiet,  luxurious  French  restaurant,  near  the  top  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  :  he  didn't  tell  her  that  he  knew  it  through  having 
once  lunched  there  in  company  with  Mrs.  Luna.  Verena 
for  the  present  declined  his  hospitality — said  she  was  going 
to  be  out  so  short  a  time  that  it  wasn't  worth  the  trouble ; 
she  should  not  be  hungry,  luncheon  to  her  was  nothing,  she 
would  eat  when  she  went  home.  When  he  pressed  her  she 
said  she  would  see  later,  perhaps,  if  she  should  find  she 
wanted  something.  She  would  have  liked  immensely  to  go 
with  him  to  an  eating-house,  and  yet,  with  this,  she  was 
afraid,  just  as  she  was  rather  afraid,  at  bottom,  and  in  the 
intervals  of  her  quick  pulsations  of  amusement,  of  the  whole 
expedition,  not  knowing  why  she  had  come,  though  it 
made  her  happy,  and  reflecting  that  there  was  really  nothing 
Mr.  Ransom  could  have  to  say  to  her  that  would  concern 
her  closely  enough.  He  knew  what  he  intended  about  her 
sharing  the  noonday  repast  with  him  somehow ;  it  had  been 
part  of  his  plan  that  she  should  sit  opposite  him  at  a  little 
table,  taking  her  napkin  out  of  its  curious  folds — sit  there 
smiling  back  at  him  while  he  said  to  her  certain  things  that 
hummed,  like  memories  of  tunes,  in  his  fancy,  and  they 
waited  till  something  extremely  good,  and  a  little  vague, 
chosen  out  of  a  French  carte,  was  brought  them.  That 
was  not  at  all  compatible  with  her  going  home  at  the  end 
of  half  an  hour,  as  she  seemed  to  expect  to.  They  visited 
the  animals  in  the  little  zoological  garden  which  forms  one 
of  the  attractions  of  the  Central  Park ;  they  observed  the 
swans  in  the  ornamental  water,  and  they  even  considered 
the  question  of  taking  a  boat  for  half  an  hour,  Ransom 
saying  that  they  needed  this  to  make  their  visit  complete. 
Verena  replied  that  she  didn't  see  why  it  should  be  com- 
plete, and  after  having  threaded  the  devious  ways  of  the 
Ramble,  lost  themselves  in  the  Maze,  and  admired  all  the 


326  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxni. 

statues  and  busts  of  great  men  with  which  the  grounds  are 
decorated,  they  contented  themselves  with  resting  on  a 
sequestered  bench,  where,  however,  there  was  a  pretty 
glimpse  of  the  distance  and  an  occasional  stroller  creaked 
by  on  the  asphalt  walk. 

They  had  had  by  this  time  a  great  deal  of  talk,  none  of 
which,  nevertheless,  had  been  serious  to  Verena's  view. 
Mr.  Ransom  continued  to  joke  about  everything,  including 
the  emancipation  of  women ;  Verena,  who  had  always  lived 
with  people  who  took  the  world  very  earnestly,  had  never 
encountered  such  a  power  of  disparagement  or  heard  so 
much  sarcasm  levelled  at  the  institutions  of  her  country  and 
the  tendencies  of  the  age.  At  first  she  replied  to  him, 
contradicted,  showed  a  high  spirit  of  retort,  turning  his 
irreverence  against  himself;  she  was  too  quick  and  inge- 
nious not  to  be  able  to  think  of  something  to  oppose — 
talking  in  a  fanciful  strain — to  almost  everything  he  said. 
But  little  by  little  she  grew  weary  and  rather  sad ;  brought 
up,  as  she  had  been,  to  admire  new  ideas,  to  criticise  the 
social  arrangements  that  one  met  almost  everywhere, 
and  to  disapprove  of  a  great  many  things,  she  had 
yet  never  dreamed  of  such  a  wholesale  arraignment  as 
Mr.  Ransom's,  so  much  bitterness  as  she  saw  lurking 
beneath  his  exaggerations,  his  misrepresentations.  She 
knew  he  was  an  intense  conservative,  but  she  didn't  know 
that  being  a  conservative  could  make  a  person  so  aggressive 
and  unmerciful.  She  thought  conservatives  were  only 
smug  and  stubborn  and  self-complacent,  satisfied  with  what 
actually  existed ;  but  Mr.  Ransom  didn't  seem  any  more 
satisfied  with  what  existed  than  with  what  she  wanted  to 
exist,  and  he  was  ready  to  say  worse  things  about  some  of 
those  whom  she  would  have  supposed  to  be  on  his  own 
side  than  she  thought  it  right  to  say  about  almost  any  one. 
She  ceased  after  a  while  to  care  to  argue  with  him,  and 
wondered  what  could  have  happened  to  him  to  make  him 
so  perverse.  Probably  something  had  gone  wrong  in  his 
life — he  had  had  some  misfortune  that  coloured  his  whole 
view  of  the  world.  He  was  a  cynic  ;  she  had  often  heard 
about ,that  state  of  mind,  though  she  had  never  encountered 
it,  for  all  the  people  she  had  seen  only  cared,  if  possible,  too 


xxxin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  327 

much.  Of  Basil  Ransom's  personal  history  she  knew  only 
what  Olive  had  told  her,  and  that  was  but  a  general  outline, 
which  left  plenty  of  room  for  private  dramas,  secret  dis- 
appointments and  sufferings.  As  she  sat  there  beside  him 
she  thought  of  some  of  these  things,  asked  herself  whether 
they  were  what  he  was  thinking  of  when  he  said,  for  in- 
stance, that  he  was  sick  of  all  the  modern  cant  about 
freedom  and  had  no  sympathy  with  those  who  wanted  an 
extension  of  it.  What  was  needed  for  the  good  of  the 
world  was  that  people  should  make  a  better  use  of  the 
liberty  they  possessed.  Such  declarations  as  this  took 
Verena's  breath  away ;  she  didn't  suppose  you  could  hear 
any  one  say  such  a  thing  as  that  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
even  the  least  advanced.  It  was  of  a  piece  with  his  de- 
nouncing the  spread  of  education ;  he  thought  the  spread  of 
education  a  gigantic  farce — people  stuffing  their  heads  with'a 
lot  of  empty  catchwords  that  prevented  them  from  doing  their 
work  quietly  and  honestly.  You  had  a  right  to  an  educa- 
tion only  if  you  had  an  intelligence,  and  if  you  looked  at 
the  matter  with  any  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are  you 
soon  perceived  that  an  intelligence  was  a  very  rare  luxury, 
the  attribute  of  one  person  in  a  hundred.  He  seemed  to 
take  a  pretty  low  view  of  humanity,  anyway.  Verena  hoped 
that  something  really  bad  had  happened  to  him — not  by 
way  of  gratifying  any  resentment  he  aroused  in  her  nature, 
but  to  help  herself  to  forgive  him  for  so  much  contempt 
and  brutality.  She  wanted  to  forgive  him,  for  after  they 
had  sat  on  their  bench  half  an  hour  and  his  jesting  mood 
had  abated  a  little,  so  that  he  talked  with  more  considera- 
tion (as  it  seemed),  and  more  sincerity,  a  strange  feeling 
came  over  her,  a  perfect  willingness  not  to  keep  insisting 
on  her  own  side  and  a  desire  not  to  part  from  him  with  a 
mere  accentuation  of  their  differences.  Strange  I  call  the 
nature  of  her  reflections,  for  they  softly  battled  with  each 
other  as  she  listened,  in  the  warm,  still  air,  touched  with 
the  far-away  hum  of  the  immense  city,  to  his  deep,  sweet, 
distinct  voice,  expressing  monstrous  opinions  with  exotic 
cadences  and  mild,  familiar  laughs,  which,  as  he  leaned 
towards  her,  almost  tickled  her  cheek  and  ear.  It  seemed 
to  her  strangely  harsh,  almost  cruel,  to  have  brought  her 


328  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxin. 

out  only  to  say  to  her  things  which,  after  all,  free  as  she 
was  to  contradict  them  and  tolerant  as  she  always  tried 
to  be,  could  only  give  her  pain;  yet  there  was  a  spell 
upon  her  as  she  listened ;  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be  easily 
submissive,  to  like  being  overborne.  She  could  be  silent 
when  people  insisted,  and  silent  without  acrimony.  Her 
whole  relation  to  Olive  was  a  kind  of  tacit,  tender  assent  to 
passionate  insistence,  and  if  this  had  ended  by  being  easy 
and  agreeable  to  her  (and  indeed  had  never  been  anything 
else),  it  may  be  supposed  that  the  struggle  of  yielding  to  a 
will  which  she  felt  to  be  stronger  even  than  Olive's  was  not 
of  long  duration.  Ransom's  will  had  the  effect  of  making 
her  linger  even  while  she  knew  the  afternoon  was  going  on, 
that  Olive  would  have  come  back  and  found  her  still 
absent,  and  would  have  been  submerged  again  in  the  bitter 
waves  of  anxiety.  She  saw  her,  in  fact,  as  she  must  be  at 
that  moment,  posted  at  the  window  of  her  room  in  Tenth 
Street,  watching  for  some  sign  of  her  return,  listening  for 
her  step  on  the  staircase,  her  voice  in  the  hall.  Verena 
looked  at  this  image  as  at  a  painted  picture,  perceived  all  it 
represented,  every  detail.  If  it  didn't  move  her  more, 
make  her  start  to  her  feet,  dart  away  from  Basil  Ransom 
and  hurry  back  to  her  friend,  this  was  because  the  very 
torment  to  which  she  was  conscious  of  subjecting  that  friend 
made  her  say  to  herself  that  it  must  be  the  very  last.  This 
was  the  last  time  she  could  ever  sit  by  Mr.  Ransom  and 
hear  him  express  himself  in  a  manner  that  interfered  so 
with  her  life ;  the  ordeal  had  been  so  personal  and  so 
complete  that  she  forgot,  for  the  moment,  it  was  also  the 
first  time  it  had  occurred.  It  might  have  been  going  on 
for  months.  She  was  perfectly  aware  that  it  could  bring 
them  to  nothing,  for  one  must  lead  one's  own  life ;  it  was 
impossible  to  lead  the  life  of  another,  especially  when  that 
other  was  so  different,  so  arbitrary  and  unscrupulous. 


XXXIV. 

'  I  PRESUME  you  are  the  only  person  in  this  country  who 
feels  as  you  do/  she  observed  at  last. 

*  Not  the  only  person  who  feels  so,  but  very  possibly  the 
only  person  who  thinks  so.  I  have  an  idea  that  my  con- 
victions exist  in  a  vague,  unformulated  state  in  the  minds 
of  a  great  many  of  my  fellow-citizens.  If  I  should  succeed 
some  day  in  giving  them  adequate  expression  I  should 
simply  put  into  shape  the  slumbering  instincts  of  an  im- 
portant minority.' 

'  I  am  glad  you  admit  it's  a  minority!'  Verena  exclaimed. 
'That's  fortunate  for  us  poor  creatures.  And  what  do 
you  call  adequate  expression  ?  I  presume  you  would  like 
to  be  President  of  the  United  States?' 

'  And  breathe  forth  my  views  in  glowing  messages  to  a 
palpitating  Senate  ?  That  is  exactly  what  I  should  like  to 
be  j  you  read  my  aspirations  wonderfully  well.' 

'  Well,  do  you  consider  that  you  have  advanced  far  in 
that  direction,  as  yet?'  Verena  asked. 

This  question,  with  the  tone  in  which  it  happened  to  be 
uttered,  seemed  to  the  young  man  to  project  rather  an 
ironical  light  upon  his  present  beggarly  condition,  so  that 
for  a  moment  he  said  nothing ;  a  moment  during  which  if 
his  neighbour  had  glanced  round  at  his  face  she  would 
have  seen  it  ornamented  by  an  incipient  blush.  Her  words 
had  for  him  the  effect  of  a  sudden,  though,  on  the  part  of 
a  young  woman  who  had  of  course  every  right  to  defend 
herself,  a  perfectly  legitimate  taunt.  They  appeared  only 
to  repeat  in  another  form  (so  at  least  his  exaggerated 
Southern  pride,  his  hot  sensibility,  interpreted  the  matter), 
the  idea  that  a  gentleman  so  dreadfully  backward  in  the 
path  of  fortune  had  no  right  to  take  up  the  time  of  a 


330  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

brilliant,  successful  girl,  even  for  the  purpose  of  satisfying 
himself  that  he  renounced  her.  But  the  reminder  only 
sharpened  his  wish  to  make  her  feel  that  if  he  had  re- 
nounced, it  was  simply  on  account  of  that  same  ugly, 
accidental,  outside  backwardness ;  and  if  he  had  not,  he 
went  so  far  as  to  flatter  himself,  he  might  triumph  over  the 
whole  accumulation  of  her  prejudices — over  all  the  bribes 
of  her  notoriety.  The  deepest  feeling  in  Ransom's  bosom 
in  relation  to  her  was  the  conviction  that  she  was  made  for 
love,  as  he  had  said  to  himself  while  he  listened  to  her  at 
Mrs.  Burrage's.  She  was  profoundly  unconscious  of  it,  and 
another  ideal,  crude  and  thin  and  artificial,  had  interposed 
itself;  but  in  the  presence  of  a  man  she  should  really  care 
for,  this  false,  flimsy  structure  would  rattle  to  her  feet,  and 
the  emancipation  of  Olive  Chancellor's  sex  (what  sex  was  it, 
great  heaven  ?  he  used  profanely  to  ask  himself),  would  be 
relegated  to  the  land  of  vapours,  of  dead  phrases.  The 
reader  may  imagine  whether  such  an  impression  as  this 
made  it  any  more  agreeable  to  Basil  to  have  to  believe  it 
would  be  indelicate  in  him  to  try  to  woo  her.  He  would 
have  resented  immensely  the  imputation  that  he  had  done 
anything  of  that  sort  yet.  '  Ah,  Miss  Tarrant,  my  success 
in  life  is  one  thing — my  ambition  is  another  !'  he  exclaimed, 
presently,  in  answer  to  her  inquiry.  'Nothing  is  more 
possible  than  that  I  may  be  poor  and  unheard  of  all  my 
days ;  and  in  that  case  no  one  but  myself  will  know  the 
visions  of  greatness  I  have  stifled  and  buried.' 

'Why  do  you  talk  of  being  poor  and  unheard  of? 
Aren't  you  getting  on  quite  well  in  this  city?' 

This  question  of  Verena's  left  him  no  time,  or  at  least 
no  coolness,  to  remember  that  to  Mrs.  Luna  and  to  Olive 
he  had  put  a  fine  face  on  his  prospects,  and  that  any  im- 
pression the  girl  might  have  about  them  was  but  the  natural 
echo  of  what  these  ladies  believed.  It  had  to  his  ear  such 
a  subtly  mocking,  defiant,  unconsciously  injurious  quality, 
that  the  only  answer  he  could  make  to  it  seemed  to  him  for 
the  moment  to  be  an  outstretched  arm,  which,  passing 
round  her  waist,  should  draw  her  so  close  to  him  as  to 
enable  him  to  give  her  a  concise  account  of  his  situation  in 
the  form  of  a  deliberate  kiss.  If  the  moment  I  speak  of 


xxxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  331 

had  lasted  a  few  seconds  longer  I  know  not  what  monstrous 
proceeding  of  this  kind  it  would  have  been  my  difficult  duty 
to  describe ;  it  was  fortunately  arrested  by  the  arrival  of  a 
nursery-maid  pushing  a  perambulator  and  accompanied  by 
an  infant  who  toddled  in  her  wake.  Both  the  nurse  and 
her  companion  gazed  fixedly,  and  it  seemed  to  Ransom 
even  sternly,  at  the  striking  couple  on  the  bench ;  and 
meanwhile  Verena,  looking  with  a  quickened  eye  at  the 
children  (she  adored  children),  went  on — 

*  It  sounds  too  flat  for  you  to  talk  about  your  remaining 
unheard  of.  Of  course  you  are  ambitious;  any  one  can 
see  that,  to  look  at  you.  And  once  your  ambition  is 
excited  in  any  particular  direction,  people  had  better  look 
out.  With  your  will !'  she  added,  with  a  curious  mocking 
candour. 

'  What  do  you  know  about  my  will?'  he  asked,  laughing 
a  little  awkwardly,  as  if  he  had  really  attempted  to  kiss  her 
— in  the  course  of  the  second  independent  interview  he  had 
ever  had  with  her — and  been  rebuffed. 

*I  know  it's  stronger  than  mine.  It  made  me  come 
out,  when  I  thought  I  had  much  better  not,  and  it  keeps 
me  sitting  here  long  after  I  should  have  started  for  home.' 

'  Give  me  the  day,  dear  Miss  Tarrant,  give  me  the  day,' 
Basil  Ransom  murmured ;  and  as  she  turned  her  face  upon 
him,  moved  by  the  expression  of  his  voice,  he  added — 
'  Come  and  dine  with  me,  since  you  wouldn't  lunch.  Are 
you  really  not  faint  and  weak  ?' 

'  I  am  faint  and  weak  at  all  the  horrible  things  you  have 
said;  I  have  lunched  on  abominations.  And  now  you 
want  me  to  dine  with  you  ?  Thank  you ;  I  think  you're 
cool!'  Verena  cried,  with  a  laugh  which  her  chronicler 
knows  to  have  been  expressive  of  some  embarrassment, 
though  Basil  Ransom  did  not. 

'You  must  remember  that  I  have,  on  two  different 
occasions,  listened  to  you  for  an  hour,  in  speechless, 
submissive  attention,  and  that  I  shall  probably  do  it  a  great 
many  times  more.' 

'Why  should  you  ever  listen  to  me  again,  when  you 
loathe  my  ideas  ?' 

'I  don't  listen  to  your  ideas;  I  listen  to  your  voice.' 


332  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

'  Ah,  I  told  Olive !'  said  Verena,  quickly,  as  if  his  words 
had  confirmed  an  old  fear;  which  was  general,  however, 
and  did  not  relate  particularly  to  him. 

Ransom  still  had  an  impression  that  he  was  not  making 
love  to  her,  especially  when  he  could  observe,  with  all  the 
superiority  of  a  man — '  I  wonder  whether  you  have  under- 
stood ten  words  I  have  said  to  you?' 

'I  should  think  you  had  made  it  clear  enough — you 
had  rubbed  it  in  !' 

'What  have  you  understood,  then?' 

'  Why,  that  you  want  to  put  us  back  further  than  we 
have  been  at  any  period.' 

'  I  have  been  joking ;  I  have  been  piling  it  up,'  Ransom 
said,  making  that  concession  unexpectedly  to  the  girl. 
Every  now  and  then  he  had  an  air  of  relaxing  himself, 
becoming  absent,  ceasing  to  care  to  discuss. 

She  was  capable  of  noticing  this,  and  in  a  moment  she 
asked — '  Why  don't  you  write  out  your  ideas?' 

This  touched  again  upon  the  matter  of  his  failure ;  it 
was  curious  how  she  couldn't  keep  off  it,  hit  it  every  time. 
'Do  you  mean  for  the  public?  I  have  written  many 
things,  but  I  can't  get  them  printed.' 

'  Then  it  would  seem  that  there  are  not  so  many  people 
— so  many  as  you  said  just  now — who  agree  with  you.' 

'  Well,'  said  Basil  Ransom,  '  editors  are  a  mean,  timorous 
lot,  always  saying  they  want  something  original,  but  deadly 
afraid  of  it  when  it  comes.' 

'Is  it  for  papers,  magazines?'  As  it  sank  into  Verena's 
mind  more  deeply  that  the  contributions  of  this  remarkable 
young  man  had  been  rejected — contributions  in  which, 
apparently,  everything  she  held  dear  was  riddled  with  scorn 
— she  felt  a  strange  pity  and  sadness,  a  sense  of  injustice. 
'  I  am  very  sorry  you  can't  get  published,'  she  said,  so 
simply  that  he  looked  up  at  her,  from  the  figure  he  was 
scratching  on  the  asphalt  with  his  stick,  to  see  whether 
such  a  tone  as  that,  in  relation  to  such  a  fact,  were  not 
'  put  on.'  But  it  was  evidently  genuine,  and  Verena  added 
that  she  supposed  getting  published  was  very  difficult 
always ;  she  remembered,  though  she  didn't  mention,  how 
little  success  her  father  had  when  he  tried.  She  hoped 


xxxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  333 

Mr.  Ransom  would  keep  on ;  he  would  be  sure  to  succeed 
at  last.  Then  she  continued,  smiling,  with  more  irony : 
'  You  may  denounce  me  by  name  if  you  like.  Only  please 
don't  say  anything  about  Olive  Chancellor.' 

'  How  little  you  understand  what  I  want  to  achieve ! ' 
Basil  Ransom  exclaimed.  '  There  you  are — you  women — 
all  over;  always  meaning  yourselves,  something  personal, 
and  always  thinking  it  is  meant  by  others  !' 

'  Yes,  that's  the  charge  they  make,'  said  Verena,  gaily. 

1 1  don't  want  to  touch  you,  or  Miss  Chancellor,  or  Mrs. 
Farrinder,  or  Miss  Birdseye,  or  the  shade  of  Eliza  P. 
Moseley,  or  any  other  gifted  and  celebrated  being  on  earth 
— or  in  heaven.' 

*  Oh,  I  suppose  you  want  to  destroy  us  by  neglect,  by 
silence  !'  Verena  exclaimed,  with  the  same  brightness. 

1  No,  I  don't  want  to  destroy  you,  any  more  than  I  want 
to  save  you.  There  has  been  far  too  much  talk  about  you, 
and  I  want  to  leave  you  alone  altogether.  My  interest  is 
in  my  own  sex;  yours  evidently  can  look  after  itself. 
That's  what  I  want  to  save/ 

Verena  saw  that  he  was  more  serious  now  than  he  had 
been  before,  that  he  was  not  piling  it  up  satirically,  but 
saying  really  and  a  trifle  wearily,  as  if  suddenly  he  were 
tired  of  much  talk,  what  he  meant.  'To  save  it  from 
what  ?'  she  asked. 

'  From  the  most  damnable  feminisation !  I  am  so  far 
from  thinking,  as  you  set  forth  the  other  night,  that  there  is 
not  enough  woman  in  our  general  life,  that  it  has  long  been 
pressed  home  to  me  that  there  is  a  great  deal  too  much. 
The  whole  generation  is  womanised ;  the  masculine  tone 
is  passing  out  of  the  world;  it's  a  feminine,  a  nervous, 
hysterical,  chattering,  canting  age,  an  age  of  hollow  phrases 
and  false  delicacy  and  exaggerated  solicitudes  and  coddled 
sensibilities,  which,  if  we  don't  soon  look  out,  will  usher  in 
the  reign  of  mediocrity,  of  the  feeblest  and  flattest  and 
the  most  pretentious  that  has  ever  been.  The  masculine 
character,  the  ability  to  dare  and  endure,  to  know  and  yet 
not  fear  reality,  to  look  the  world  in  the  face  and  take  it  for 
what  it  is — a  very  queer  and  partly  very  base  mixture — that 
is  what  I  want  to  preserve,  or  rather,  as  I  may  say,  to 


334  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

recover ;  and  I  must  tell  you  that  I  don't  in  the  least  care 
what  becomes  of  you  ladies  while  I  make  the  attempt ! ' 

The  poor  fellow  delivered  himself  of  these  narrow 
notions  (the  rejection  of  which  by  leading  periodicals  was 
certainly  not  a  matter  for  surprise),  with  low,  soft  earnest- 
ness, bending  towards  her  so  as  to  give  out  his  whole  idea, 
yet  apparently  forgetting  for  the  moment  how  offensive  it 
must  be  to  her  now  that  it  was  articulated  in  that  calm, 
severe  way,  in  which  no  allowance  was  to  be  made  for 
hyperbole.  Verena  did  not  remind  herself  of  this ;  she 
was  too  much  impressed  by  his  manner  and  by  the  novelty 
of  a  man  taking  that  sort  of  religious  tone  about  such  a 
cause.  It  told  her  on  the  spot,  from  one  minute  to  the 
other  and  once  for  all,  that  the  man  who  could  give  her 
that  impression  would  never  come  round.  She  felt  cold, 
slightly  sick,  though  she  replied  that  now  he  summed  up 
his  creed  in  such  a  distinct,  lucid  way,  it  was  much  more 
comfortable — one  knew  with  what  one  was  dealing;  a 
declaration  much  at  variance  with  the  fact,  for  Verena  had 
never  felt  less  gratified  in  her  life.  The  ugliness  of  her 
companion's  profession  of  faith  made  her  shiver ;  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  her  to  imagine  anything  more  crudely 
profane.  She  was  determined,  however,  not  to  betray  any 
shudder  that  could  suggest  weakness,  and  the  best  way  she 
could  think  of  to  disguise  her  emotion  was  to  remark  in  a 
tone  which,  although  not  assumed  for  that  purpose,  was 
really  the  most  effective  revenge,  inasmuch  as  it  always 
produced  on  Ransom's  part  (it  was  not  peculiar,  among 
women,  to  Verena),  an  angry  helplessness — '  Mr.  Ransom, 
I  assure  you  this  is  an  age  of  conscience.' 

'  That's  a  part  of  your  cant.  It's  an  age  of  unspeakable 
shams,  as  Carlyle  says.' 

'Well,'  returned  Verena,  'it's  all  very  comfortable  for 
you  to  say  that  you  wish  to  leave  us  alone.  But  you  can't 
leave  us  alone.  We  are  here,  and  we  have  got  to  be  dis- 
posed of.  You  have  got  to  put  us  somewhere.  It's  a 
remarkable  social  system  that  has  no  place  for  us/'  the 
girl  went  on,  with  her  most  charming  laugh. 

'  No  place  in  public.  My  plan  is  to  keep  you  at  home 
and  have  a  better  time  with  you  there  than  ever.' 


xxxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  335 

1  I'm  glad  it's  to  be  better ;  there's  room  for  it.  Woe 
to  American  womanhood  when  you  start  a  movement  for 
being  more — what  you  like  to  be — at  home  !' 

'Lord,  how  you're  perverted;  you,  the  very  genius!' 
Basil  Ransom  murmured,  looking  at  her  with  the  kindest 
eyes. 

She  paid  no  attention  to  this,  she  went  on,  '  And  those 
who  have  got  no  home  (there  are  millions,  you  know),  what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?  You  must  remember  that 
women  marry — are  given  in  marriage — less  and  less ;  that 
isn't  their  career,  as  a  matter  of  course,  any  more.  You 
can't  tell  them  to  go  and  mind  their  husband  and  children, 
when  they  have  no  husband  and  children  to  mind.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Ransom,  '  that's  a  detail !  And  for  myself,  I 
confess,  I  have  such  a  boundless  appreciation  of  your  sex 
in  private  life  that  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  advocate  a  man's 
having  a  half  a  dozen  wives.' 

'  The  civilisation  of  the  Turks,  then,  strikes  you  as  the 
highest?' 

'The  Turks  have  a  second-rate  religion;  they  are 
fatalists,  and  that  keeps  them  down.  Besides,  their  women 
are  not  nearly  so  charming  as  ours — or  as  ours  would  be  if 
this  modern  pestilence  were  eradicated.  Think  what  a 
confession  you  make  when  you  say  that  women  are  less 
and  less  sought  in  marriage ;  what  a  testimony  that  is  to 
the  pernicious  effect  on  their  manners,  their  person,  their 
nature,  of  this  fatuous  agitation.' 

'That's  very  complimentary  to  me!'  Verena  broke  in, 
lightly. 

But  Ransom  was  carried  over  her  interruption  by  the 
current  of  his  argument.  '  There  are  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  any  woman,  all  women,  married  or  single,  may  find 
occupation.  They  may  find  it  in  making  society  agreeable.' 

'Agreeable  to  men,  of  course.' 

'To  whom  else,  pray?  Dear  Miss  Tarrant,  what  is 
most  agreeable  to  women  is  to  be  agreeable  to  men  !  That 
is  a  truth  as  old  as  the  human  race,  and  don't  let  Olive 
Chancellor  persuade  you  that  she  and  Mrs.  Farrinder  have 
invented  any  that  can  take  its  place,  or  that  is  more  pro- 
found, more  durable.' 


336  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

Verena  waived  this  point  of  the  discussion;  she  only 
said  :  '  Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  prepared  to  see  the 
place  all  choked  up  with  old  maids  !' 

'  I  don't  object  to  the  old  old  maids ;  they  were  delight- 
ful ;  they  had  always  plenty  to  do,  and  didn't  wander  about 
the  world  crying  out  for  a  vocation.  It  is  the  new  old 
maid  that  you  have  invented  from  whom  I  pray  to  be 
delivered.'  He  didn't  say  he  meant  Olive  Chancellor,  but 
Verena  looked  at  him  as  if  she  suspected  him  of  doing  so ; 
and  to  put  her  off  that  scent  he  went  on,  taking  up  what 
she  had  said  a  moment  before  :  '  As  for  its  not  being  com- 
plimentary to  you,  my  remark  about  the  effect  on  the 
women  themselves  of  this  pernicious  craze,  my  dear  Miss 
Tarrant,  you  may  be  quite  at  your  ease.  You  stand  apart, 
you  are  unique,  extraordinary;  you  constitute  a  category 
by  yourself.  In  you  the  elements  have  been  mixed  in  a 
manner  so  felicitous  that  I  regard  you  as  quite  incorruptible. 
I  don't  know  where  you  come  from  nor  how  you  come  to 
be  what  you  are,  but  you  are  outside  and  above  all  vulgar- 
ising influences.  Besides,  you  ought  to  know,'  the  young 
man  proceeded,  in  the  same  cool,  mild,  deliberate  tone,  as 
if  he  were  demonstrating  a  mathematical  solution,  '  you 
ought  to  know  that  your  connection  with  all  these  rantings 
and  ravings  is  the  most  unreal,  accidental,  illusory  thing  in 
the  world.  You  think  you  care  about  them,  but  you  don't 
at  all.  They  were  imposed  upon  you  by  circumstances,  by 
unfortunate  associations,  and  you  accepted  them  as  you 
would  have  accepted  any  other  burden,  on  account  of  the 
sweetness  of  your  nature.  You  always  want  to  please 
some  one,  and  now  you  go  lecturing  about  the  country, 
and  trying  to  provoke  demonstrations,  in  order  to  please 
Miss  Chancellor,  just  as  you  did  it  before  to  please  your 
father  and  mother.  It  isn't  you,  the  least  in  the  world, 
but  an  inflated  little  figure  (very  remarkable  in  its  way  too), 
whom  you  have  invented  and  set  on  its  feet,  pulling  strings, 
behind  it,  to  make  it  move  and  speak,  while  you  try  to 
conceal  and  efface  yourself  there.  Ah,  Miss  Tarrant,  if  it's 
a  question  of  pleasing,  how  much  you  might  please  some 
one  else  by  tipping  your  preposterous  puppet  over  and 
standing  forth  in  your  freedom  as  well  as  in  your  loveliness  ! ' 


xxxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  337 

While  Basil  Ransom  spoke — and  he  had  not  spoken 
just  that  way  yet — Verena  sat  there  deeply  attentive,  with 
her  eyes  on  the  ground;  but  as  soon  as  he  ceased  she 
sprang  to  her  feet — something  made  her  feel  that  their 
association  had  already  lasted  quite  too  long.  She  turned 
away  from  him  as  if  she  wished  to  leave  him,  and  indeed 
were  about  to  attempt  to  do  so.  She  didn't  desire  to  look 
at  him  now,  or  even  to  have  much  more  conversation  with 
him.  'Something,'  I  say,  made  her  feel  so,  but  it  was 
partly  his  curious  manner — so  serene  and  explicit,  as  if  he 
knew  the  whole  thing  to  an  absolute  certainty — which 
partly  scared  her  and  partly  made  her  feel  angry.  She 
began  to  move  along  the  path  to  one  of  the  gates,  as  if  it 
were  settled  that  they  should  immediately  leave  the  place. 
He  laid  it  all  out  so  clearly;  if  he  had  had  a  revelation  he 
couldn't  speak  otherwise.  That  description  of  herself  as 
something  different  from  what  she  was  trying  to  be,  the 
charge  of  want  of  reality,  made  her  heart  beat  with  pain ; 
she  was  sure,  at  any  rate,  it  was  her  real  self  that  was  there 
with  him  now,  where  she  oughtn't  to  be.  In  a  moment  he 
was  at  her  side  again,  going  with  her ;  and  as  they  walked 
it  came  over  her  that  some  of  the  things  he  had  said  to  her 
were  far  beyond  what  Olive  could  have  imagined  as  the 
very  worst  possible.  What  would  be  her  state  now,  poor 
forsaken  friend,  if  some  of  them  had  been  borne  to  her  in 
the  voices  of  the  air?  Verena  had  been  affected  by  her 
companion's  speech  (his  manner  had  changed  so ;  it  seemed 
to  express  something  quite  different),  in  a  way  that  pushed 
her  to  throw  up  the  discussion  and  determine  that  as  soon 
as  they  should  get  out  of  the  park  she  would  go  off  by 
herself;  but  she  still  had  her  wits  about  her  sufficiently  to 
think  it  important  she  should  give  no  sign  of  discomposure, 
of  confessing  that  she  was  driven  from  the  field.  She 
appeared  to  herself  to  notice  and  reply  to  his  extraordinary 
observations  enough,  without  taking  them  up  too  much, 
when  she  said,  tossing  the  words  over  her  shoulder  at 
Ransom,  while  she  moved  quickly :  '  I  presume,  from  what 
you  say,  that  you  don't  think  I  have  much  ability.' 

He  hesitated  before  answering,  while  his  long  legs  easily 
kept  pace  with  her  rapid  step — her  charming,  touching, 

z 


338  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

hurrying  step,  which  expressed  all  the  trepidation  she  was 
anxious  to  conceal.  '  Immense  ability,  but  not  in  the  line 
in  which  you  most  try  to  have  it.  In  a  very  different  line, 
Miss  Tarrant !  Ability  is  no  word  for  it ;  it's  genius  !' 

She  felt  his  eyes  on  her  face — ever  so  close  and  fixed 
there — after  he  had  chosen  to  reply  to  her  question  that 
way.  She  was  beginning  to  blush ;  if  he  had  kept  them 
longer,  and  on  the  part  of  any  one  else,  she  would  have 
called  such  a  stare  impertinent.  Verena  had  been  com- 
mended of  old  by  Olive  for  her  serenity  '  while  exposed  to 
the  gaze  of  hundreds ' ;  but  a  change  had  taken  place,  and 
she  was  now  unable  to  endure  the  contemplation  of  an 
individual.  She  wished  to  detach  him,  to  lead  him  off 
again  into  the  general ;  and  for  this  purpose,  at  the  end  of 
a  moment,  she  made  another  inquiry :  '  I  am  to  under- 
stand, then,  as  your  last  word  that  you  regard  us  as  quite 
inferior?' 

'  For  public,  civic  uses,  absolutely — perfectly  weak  and 
second-rate.  I  know  nothing  more  indicative  of  the 
muddled  sentiment  of  the  time  than  that  any  number  of 
men  should  be  found  to  pretend  that  they  regard  you  in 
any  other  light.  But  privately,  personally,  it's  another 
affair.  In  the  realm  of  family  life  and  the  domestic  affec- 
tions  ' 

At  this  Verena  broke  in,  with  a  nervous  laugh,  '  Don't 
say  that ;  it's  only  a  phrase  ! ' 

'Well,  it's  a  better  one  than  any  of  yours,'  said  Basil 
Ransom,  turning  with  her  out  of  one  of  the  smaller 
gates — the  first  they  had  come  to.  They  emerged  into 
the  species  of  plaza  formed  by  the  numbered  street 
which  constitutes  the  southern  extremity  of  the  park  and  the 
termination  of  the  Sixth  Avenue.  The  glow  of  the  splen- 
did afternoon  was  over  everything,  and  the  day  seemed  to 
Ransom  still  in  its  youth.  The  bowers  and  boskages 
stretched  behind  them,  the  artificial  lakes  and  cockneyfied 
landscapes,  making  all  the  region  bright  with  the  sense  of 
air  and  space,  and  raw  natural  tints,  and  vegetation  too 
diminutive  to  overshadow.  The  chocolate-coloured  houses, 
in  tall,  new  rows,  surveyed  the  expanse ;  the  street-cars 
rattled  in  the  foreground,  changing  horses  while  the  horses 


XXXTV.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  339 

steamed,  and  absorbing  and  emitting  passengers ;  and  the 
beer- saloons,  with  exposed  shoulders  and  sides,  which  in 
New  York  do  a  good  deal  towards  representing  the  pic- 
turesque, the  'bit'  appreciated  by  painters,  announced 
themselves  in  signs  of  large  lettering  to  the  sky.  Groups 
of  the  unemployed,  the  children  of  disappointment  from 
beyond  the  seas,  propped  themselves  against  the  low,  sunny 
wall  of  the  park ;  and  on  the  other  side  the  commercial 
vista  of  the  Sixth  Avenue  stretched  away  with  a  remarkable 
absence  of  aerial  perspective. 

'  I  must  go  home ;  good-bye,'  Verena  said,  abruptly,  to 
her  companion. 

1  Go  home  ?     You  won't  come  and  dine,  then  ?' 

Verena  knew  people  who  dined  at  midday  and  others 
who  dined  in  the  evening,  and  others  still  who  never  dined 
at  all ;  but  she  knew  no  one  who  dined  at  half-past  three. 
Ransom's  attachment  to  this  idea  therefore  struck  her  as 
queer  and  infelicitous,  and  she  supposed  it  betrayed  the 
habits  of  Mississippi.  But  that  couldn't  make  it  any  more 
acceptable  to  her,  in  spite  of  his  looking  so  disappointed — 
with  his  dimly-glowing  eyes — that  he  was  heedless  for  the 
moment  that  the  main  fact  connected  with  her  return  to 
Tenth  Street  was  that  she  wished  to  go  alone. 

'  I  must  leave  you,  right  away,'  she  said.  '  Please  don't 
ask  me  to  stay ;  you  wouldn't  if  you  knew  how  little  I  want 
to  ! '  Her  manner  was  different  now,  and  her  face  as  well, 
and  though  she  smiled  more  than  ever  she  had  never 
seemed  to  him  more  serious. 

'  Alone,  do  you  mean  ?  Really  I  can't  let  you  do  that/ 
Ransom  replied,  extremely  shocked  at  this  sacrifice  being 
asked  of  him.  '  I  have  brought  you  this  immense  distance, 
I  am  responsible  for  you,  and  I  must  place  you  where  I 
found  you.' 

'Mr.  Ransom,  I  must,  I  will !'  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
he  had  not  yet  heard  her  use  ;  so  that,  a  good  deal  amazed, 
puzzled  and  pained,  he  saw  that  he  should  make  a  mistake 
if  he  were  to  insist.  He  had  known  that  their  expedition 
must  end  in  a  separation  which  could  not  be  sweet,  but  he 
had  counted  on  making  some  of  the  terms  of  it  himself. 
When  he  expressed  the  hope  that  she  would  at  least  allow 


340  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxiv. 

him  to  put  her  into  a  car,  she  replied  that  she  wished  no 
car;  she  wanted  to  walk.  This  image  of  her  'streaking 
off7  by  herself,  as  he  figured  it,  did  not  mend  the  matter ; 
but  in  the  presence  of  ther  sudden  nervous  impatience  he 
felt  that  here  was  a  feminine  mystery  which  must  be  allowed 
to  take  its  course. 

'It  costs  me  more  than  you  probably  suspect,  but  I 
submit.  Heaven  guard  you  and  bless  you,  Miss  Tarrant  !' 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  as  if  she  were 
straining  at  a  leash;  then  she  rejoined,  in  the  most  un- 
expected manner:  'I  hope  very  much  you  will  get  printed.' 

'  Get  my  articles  published  ?'  He  stared,  and  broke  out: 
'  Oh,  you  delightful  being ! ' 

*  Good-bye,'  she  repeated ;  and  now  she  gave  him  her 
hand.  As  he  held  it  a  moment,  and  asked  her  if  she  were 
really  leaving  the  city  so  soon  that  she  mightn't  see  him 
again,  she  answered :  '  If  I  stay  it  will  be  at  a  place  to 
which  you  mustn't  come.  They  wouldn't  let  you  see  me.' 

He  had  not  intended  to  put  that  question  to  her ;  he 
had  set  himself  a  limit.  But  the  limit  had  suddenly  moved 
on.  '  Do  you  mean  at  that  house  where  I  heard  you 
speak?' 

'  I  may  go  there  for  a  few  days.' 

'  If  it's  forbidden  to  me  to  go  and  see  you  there,  why 
did  you  send  me  a  card?' 

'  Because  I  wanted  to  convert  you  then.' 

'  And  now  you  give  me  up  ?' 

'  No,  no ;  I  want  you  to  remain  as  you  are  ! ' 

She  looked  strange,  with  her  more  mechanical  smile,  as 
she  said  this,  and  he  didn't  know  what  idea  was  in  her 
head.  She  had  already  left  him,  but  he  called  after  her, 
'  If  you  do  stay,  I  will  come  !'  She  neither  turned  nor 
made  an  answer,  and  all  that  was  left  to  him  was  to  watch 
her  till  she  passed  out  of  sight.  Her  back,  with  its  charm- 
ing young  form,  seemed  to  repeat  that  last  puzzle,  which 
was  almost  a  challenge. 

For  this,  however,  Verena  Tarrant  had  not  meant  it. 
She  wanted,  in  spite  of  the  greater  delay  and  the  way  Olive 
would  wonder,  to  walk  home,  because  it  gave  her  time  to 
think,  and  think  again,  how  glad  she  was  (really,  positively, 


xxxiv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  341 

now\  that  Mr.  Ransom  was  on  the  wrong  side.  If  he  had 

been  on  the  right !  She  did  not  finish  this  proposition. 

She  found  Olive  waiting  for  her  in  exactly  the  manner  she 
had  foreseen;  she  turned  to  her,  as  she  came  in,  a  face  suffi- 
ciently terrible.  Verena  instantly  explained  herself,  related 
exactly  what  she  had  been  doing ;  then  went  on,  without 
giving  her  friend  time  for  question  or  comment :  '  And  you 
—you  paid  your  visit  to  Mrs.  Burrage?' 

'  Yes,  I  went  through  that.' 

'And  did  she  press  the  question  of  my  coming  there  ?' 

'  Very  much  indeed.' 

'  And  what  did  you  say  ?' 

'I  said  very  little,  but  she  gave  me  such  assur- 
ances  ' 

'That  you  thought  I  ought  to  go?' 

Olive  was  silent  a  moment;  then  she  said  :  '  She  declares 
they  are  devoted  to  the  cause,  and  that  New  York  will  be 
at  your  feet.' 

Verena  took  Miss  Chancellor's  shoulders  in  each  of  her 
hands,  and  gave  her  back,  for  an  instant,  her  gaze,  her 
silence.  Then  she  broke  out,  with  a  kind  of  passion  :  '  I 
don't  care  for  her  assurances — I  don't  care  for  New  York  ! 
I  won't  go  to  them — I  won't — do  you  understand?'  Sud- 
denly her  voice  changed,  she  passed  her  arms  round  her 
friend  and  buried  her  face  in  her  neck.  '  Olive  Chancellor, 
take  me  away,  take  me  away  !'  she  went  on.  In  a  moment 
Olive  felt  that  she  was  sobbing  and  that  the  question  was 
settled,  the  question  she  herself  had  debated  in  anguish  a 
couple  of  hours  before. 


BOOK  THIRD. 


XXXV. 

THE  August  night  had  gathered  by  the  time  Basil  Ransom, 
having  finished  his  supper,  stepped  out  upon  the  piazza  of 
the  little  hotel.  It  was  a  very  little  hotel  and  of  a  very 
slight  and  loose  construction ;  the  tread  of  a  tall  Mississip- 
pian  made  the  staircase  groan  and  the  windows  rattle  in 
their  frames.  He  was  very  hungry  when  he  arrived,  having 
not  had  a  moment,  in  Boston,  on  his  way  through,  to  eat 
even  the  frugal  morsel  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
sustain  nature  between  a  breakfast  that  consisted  of  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  dinner  that  consisted  of  a  cup  of  tea.  He 
had  had  his  cup  of  tea  now,  and  very  bad  it  was,  brought 
him  by  a  pale,  round-backed  young  lady,  with  auburn  ring- 
lets, a  fancy  belt,  and  an  expression  of  limited  tolerance  for 
a  gentleman  who  could  not  choose  quickly  between  fried 
fish,  fried  steak,  and  baked  beans.  The  train  for  Marmion 
left  Boston  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  rambled 
fitfully  toward  the  southern  cape,  while  the  shadows  grew 
long  in  the  stony  pastures  and  the  slanting  light  gilded  the 
straggling,  shabby  woods,  and  painted  the  ponds  and 
marshes  with  yellow  gleams.  The  ripeness  of  summer  lay 
upon  the  land,  and  yet  there  was  nothing  in  the  country 
Basil  Ransom  traversed  that  seemed  susceptible  of  maturity; 
nothing  but  the  apples  in  the  little  tough,  dense  orchards, 
which  gave  a  suggestion  of  sour  fruition  here  and  there,  and 
the  tall,  bright  golden-rod  at  the  bottom  of  the  bare  stone 
dykes.  There  were  no  fields  of  yellow  grain;  only  here 
and  there  a  crop  of  brown  hay.  But  there  was  a  kind  of 
soft  scrubbiness  in  the  landscape,  and  a  sweetness  begotten 
of  low  horizons,  of  mild  air,  with  a  possibility  of  summer 
haze,  of  unregarded  inlets  where  on  August  mornings  the 
water  must  be  brightly  blue.  Ransom  had  heard  that  the 


346  THE  BOSTONIAtfS.  xxxv. 

Cape  was  the  Italy,  so  to  speak,  of  Massachusetts ;  it  had 
been  described  to  him  as  the  drowsy  Cape,  the  languid 
Cape,  the  Cape  not  of  storms,  but  of  eternal  peace.  He 
knew  that  the  Bostonians  had  been  drawn  thither,  for  the 
hot  weeks,  by  its  sedative  influence,  by  the  conviction  that 
its  toneless  air  would  minister  to  perfect  rest.  In  a  career 
in  which  there  was  so  much  nervous  excitement  as  in  theirs 
they  had  no  wish  to  be  wound  up  when  they  went  out  of 
town ;  they  were  sufficiently  wound  up  at  all  times  by  the 
sense  of  all  their  sex  had  been  through.  They  wanted  to 
live  idly,  to  unbend  and  lie  in  hammocks,  and  also  to  keep 
out  of  the  crowd,  the  rush  of  the  watering-place.  Ransom 
could  see  there  was  no  crowd  at  Marmion,  as  soon  as  he 
got  there,  though  indeed  there  was  a  rush,  which  directed 
itself  to  the  only  vehicle  in  waiting  outside  of  the  small, 
lonely,  hut-like  station,  so  distant  from  the  village  that,  as 
far  as  one  looked  along  the  sandy,  sketchy  road  which  was 
supposed  to  lead  to  it,  one  saw  only  an  empty  land  on 
either  side.  Six  or  eight  men,  in  '  dusters/  carrying  parcels 
and  handbags,  projected  themselves  upon  the  solitary, 
rickety  carry-all,  so  that  Ransom  could  read  his  own  fate, 
while  the  ruminating  conductor  of  the  vehicle,  a  lean, 
shambling  citizen,  with  a  long  neck  and  a  tuft  on  his  chin, 
guessed  that  if  he  wanted  to  get  to  the  hotel  before  dusk 
he  would  have  to  strike  out.  His  valise  was  attached  in  a 
precarious  manner  to  the  rear  of  the  carry-all.  '  Well,  I'll 
chance  it,'  the  driver  remarked,  sadly,  when  Ransom  pro- 
tested against  its  insecure  position.  He  recognised  the 
southern  quality  of  that  picturesque  fatalism — judged  that 
Miss  Chancellor  and  Verena  Tarrant  must  be  pretty 
thoroughly  relaxed  if  they  had  given  themselves  up  to  the 
genius  of  the  place.  This  was  what  he  hoped  for  and 
counted  on,  as  he  took  his  way,  the  sole  pedestrian  in  the 
group  that  had  quitted  the  train,  in  the  wake  of  the  over- 
laden carry-all.  It  helped  him  to  enjoy  the  first  country 
walk  he  had  had  for  many  months,  for  more  than  months, 
for  years,  that  the  reflection  was  forced  upon  him  as  he 
went  (the  mild,  vague  scenery,  just  beginning  to  be  dim 
with  twilight,  suggested  it  at  every  step),  that  the  two  young 
women  who  constituted,  at  Marmion,  his  whole  prefigure- 


xxxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  347 

ment  of  a  social  circle,  must,  in  such  a  locality  as  that,  be 
taking  a  regular  holiday.  The  sense  of  all  the  wrongs  they 
had  still  to  redress  must  be  lighter  there  than  it  was  in  Boston; 
the  ardent  young  man  had,  for  the  hour,  an  ingenuous  hope 
that  they  had  left  their  opinions  in  the  city.  He  liked  the 
very  smell  of  the  soil  as  he  wandered  along ;  cool,  soft 
whiffs  of  evening  met  him  at  bends  of  the  road  which  dis- 
closed very  little  more — unless  it  might  be  a  band  of  straight- 
stemmed  woodland,  keeping,  a  little,  the  red  glow  from  the 
west,  or  (as  he  went  further)  an  old  house,  shingled  all  over, 
gray  and  slightly  collapsing,  which  looked  down  at  him  from 
a  steep  bank,  at  the  top  of  wooden  steps.  He  was  already 
refreshed ;  he  had  tasted  the  breath  of  nature,  measured 
his  long  grind  in  New  York,  without  a  vacation,  with  the 
repetition  of  the  daily  movement  up  and  down  the  long, 
straight,  maddening  city,  like  a  bucket  in  a  well  or  a  shuttle 
in  a  loom. 

He  lit  his  cigar  in  the  office  of  the  hotel — a  small  room 
on  the  right  of  the  door,  where  a  '  register,'  meagrely  in- 
scribed, led  a  terribly  public  life  on  the  little  bare  desk,  and 
got  its  pages  dogs'-eared  before  they  were  covered.  Local 
worthies,  of  a  vague  identity,  used  to  lounge  there,  as 
Ransom  perceived  the  next  day,  by  the  hour.  They  tipped 
back  their  chairs  against  the  wall,  seldom  spoke,  and  might 
have  been  supposed,  with  their  converging  vision,  to  be 
watching  something  out  of  the  window,  if  there  had  been 
anything  at  Marmion  to  watch.  Sometimes  one  of  them 
got  up  and  went  to  the  desk,  on  which  he  leaned  his  elbows, 
hunching  a  pair  of  sloping  shoulders  to  an  uncollared  neck. 
For  the  fiftieth  time  he  perused  the  fly-blown  page  of  the 
recording  volume,  where  the  names  followed  each  other 
with  such  jumps  of  date.  The  others  watched  him  while 
he  did  so — or  contemplated  in  silence  some  '  guest '  of  the 
hostelry,  when  such  a  personage  entered  the  place  with  an 
air  of  appealing  from  the  general  irresponsibility  of  the 
establishment  and  found  no  one  but  the  village-philosophers 
to  address  himself  to.  It  was  an  establishment  conducted 
by  invisible,  elusive  agencies  j  they  had  a  kind  of  strong- 
hold in  the  dining-room,  which  was  kept  locked  at  all  but 
sacramental  hours.  There  was  a  tradition  that  a  'boy' 


348  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxv. 

exercised  some  tutelary  function  as  regards  the  crumpled 
register ;  but  when  he  was  inquired  about,  it  was  usually 
elicited  from  the  impartial  circle  in  the  office  either  that  he 
was  somewhere  round  or  that  he  had  gone  a-fishing.  Except 
the  haughty  waitress  who  has  just  been  mentioned  as  giving 
Ransom  his  supper,  and  who  only  emerged  at  meal-times 
from  her  mystic  seclusion,  this  impalpable  youth  was  the 
single  person  on  the  premises  who  represented  domestic 
service.  Anxious  lady-boarders,  wrapped  in  shawls,  were 
seen  waiting  for  him,  as  if  he  had  been  the  doctor,  on 
horse-hair  rocking-chairs,  in  the  little  public  parlour ;  others 
peered  vaguely  out  of  back  doors  and  windows,  thinking 
that  if  he  were  somewhere  round  they  might  see  him. 
Sometimes  people  went  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room  and 
tried  it,  shaking  it  a  little,  timidly,  to  see  if  it  would  yield ; 
then,  finding  it  fast,  came  away,  looking,  if  they  had  been 
observed,  shy  and  snubbed,  at  their  fellows.  Some  of  them 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  they  didn't  think  it  was  a  very 
good  hotel 

Ransom,  however,  didn't  much  care  whether  it  were 
good  or  not ;  he  hadn't  come  to  Marmion  for  the  love  of 
the  hotel.  Now  that  he  had  got  there,  however,  he  didn't 
know  exactly  what  to  do ;  his  course  seemed  rather  less 
easy  than  it  had  done  when,  suddenly,  the  night  before, 
tired,  sick  of  the  city-air,  and  hungry  for  a  holiday,  he  de- 
cided to  take  the  next  morning's  train  to  Boston,  and  there 
take  another  to  the  shores  of  Buzzard's  Bay.  The  hotel 
itself  offered  few  resources;  the  inmates  were  not  numerous; 
they  moved  about  a  little  outside,  on  the  small  piazza  and 
in  the  rough  yard  which  interposed  between  the  house  and 
the  road,  and  then  they  dropped  off  into  the  unmitigated 
dusk.  This  element,  touched  only  in  two  or  three  places 
by  a  far-away  dim  glimmer,  presented  itself  to  Ransom  as 
his  sole  entertainment.  Though  it  was  pervaded  by  that 
curious,  pure,  earthy  smell  which  in  New  England,  in 
summer,  hangs  in  the  nocturnal  air,  Ransom  bethought 
himself  that  the  place  might  be  a  little  dull  for  persons  who 
had  not  come  to  it,  as  he  had,  to  take  possession  of  Verena 
Tarrant.  The  unfriendly  inn,  which  suggested  dreadfully 
to  Ransom  (he  despised  the  practice),  an  early  bed -time, 


xxxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  349 

seemed  to  have  no  relation  to  anything,  not  even  to  itself; 
but  a  fellow-tenant  of  whom  he  made  an  inquiry  told  him 
the  village  was  sprinkled  round.  Basil  presently  walked 
along  the  road  in  search  of  it,  under  the  stars,  smoking 
one  of  the  good  cigars  which  constituted  his  only  tribute  to 
luxury.  He  reflected  that  it  would  hardly  do  to  begin  his 
attack  that  night  j  he  ought  to  give  the  Bostonians  a  certain 
amount  of  notice  of  his  appearance  on  the  scene.  He 
thought  it  very  possible,  indeed,  that  they  might  be  addicted 
to  the  vile  habit  of  'retiring'  with  the  cocks  and  hens. 
He  was  sure  that  was  one  of  the  things  Olive  Chancellor 
would  do  so  long  as  he  should  stay — on  purpose  to  spite 
him ;  she  would  make  Verena  Tarrant  go  to  bed  at  un- 
natural hours,  just  to  deprive  him  of  his  evenings.  He 
walked  some  distance  without  encountering  a  creature  or 
discerning  an  habitation ;  but  he  enjoyed  the  splendid  star- 
light, the  stillness,  the  shrill  melancholy  of  the  crickets, 
which  seemed  to  make  all  the  vague  forms  of  the  country 
pulsate  around  him ;  the  whole  impression  was  a  bath  of 
freshness  after  the  long  strain  of  the  preceding  two  years, 
and  his  recent  sweltering  weeks  in  New  York.  At  the  end 
of  ten  minutes  (his  stroll  had  been  slow),  a  figure  drew  near 
him,  at  first  indistinct,  but  presently  defining  itself  as  that 
of  a  woman.  She  was  walking  apparently  without  purpose, 
like  himself,  or  without  other  purpose  than  that  of  looking 
at  the  stars,  which  she  paused  for  an  instant,  throwing  back 
her  head,  to  contemplate,  as  he  drew  nearer  to  her.  In  a 
moment  he  was  very  close ;  he  saw  her  look  at  him,  through 
the  clear  gloom,  as  they  passed  each  other.  She  was  small 
and  slim ;  he  made  out  her  head  and  face,  saw  that  her 
hair  was  cropped ;  had  an  impression  of  having  seen  her 
before.  He  noticed  that  as  she  went  by  she  turned  as  well 
as  himself,  and  that  there  was  a  sort  of  recognition  in  her 
movement.  Then  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  seen  her  else- 
where, and  before  she  had  added  to  the  distance  that  separated 
them  he  stopped  short,  looking  after  her.  She  noticed  his 
halt,  paused  equally,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  there 
face  to  face,  at  a  certain  interval,  in  the  darkness. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon — is  it  Doctor  Prance  ?'    he  found 
himself  demanding. 


35°  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxv. 

For  a  minute  there  was  no  answer ;  then  came  the  voice 
of  the  little  lady : 

'  Yes,  sir ;  I  am  Doctor  Prance.  Any  one  sick  at  the 
hotel?' 

1 1  hope  not ;  I  don't  know,'  Ransom  said,  laughing. 

Then  he  took  a  few  steps,  mentioned  his  name,  recalled 
his  having  met  her  at  Miss  Birdseye's,  ever  so  long  before 
(nearly  two  years),  and  expressed  the  hope  that  she  had  not 
forgotten  that. 

She  thought  it  over  a  little — she  was  evidently  addicted 
neither  to  empty  phrases  nor  to  unconsidered  assertions. 
'I  presume  you  mean  that  night  Miss  Tarrant  launched 
out  so.' 

'  That  very  night.   We  had  a  very  interesting  conversation.' 

'Well,  I  remember  I  lost  a  good  deal,'  said  Doctor 
Prance. 

'  Well,  I  don't  know ;  I  have  an  idea  you  made  it  up  in 
other  ways,'  Ransom  returned,  laughing  still. 

He  saw  her  bright  little  eyes  engage  with  his  own. 
Staying,  apparently,  in  the  village,  she  had  come  out,  bare- 
headed, for  an  evening  walk,  and  if  it  had  been  possible  to 
imagine  Doctor  Prance  bored  and  in  want  of  recreation,  the 
way  she  lingered  there  as  if  she  were  quite  willing  to  have 
another  talk  might  have  suggested  to  Basil  Ransom  this 
condition.  'Why,  don't  you  consider  her  career  very 
remarkable?' 

'  Oh  yes ;  everything  is  remarkable  nowadays ;  we  live 
in  an  age  of  wonders !'  the  young  man  replied,  much 
amused  to  find  himself  discussing  the  object  of  his  adoration 
in  this  casual  way,  in  the  dark,  on  a  lonely  country-road, 
with  a  short-haired  female  physician.  It  was  astonishing 
how  quickly  Doctor  Prance  and  he  had  made  friends  again. 
'  I  suppose,  by  the  way,  you  know  Miss  Tarrant  and  Miss 
Chancellor  are  staying  down  here?'  he  went  on. 

'  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  know  it.  I  am  visiting  Miss 
Chancellor,'  the  dry  little  woman  added. 

'  Oh  indeed  ?  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it ! '  Ransom  ex- 
claimed, feeling  that  he  might  have  a  friend  in  the  camp. 
*  Then  you  can  inform  me  where  those  ladies  have  their 
house.' 


xxxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  351 

'  Yes,  I  guess  I  can  tell  it  in  the  dark.  I  will  show  you 
round  now,  if  you  like.' 

*  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  it,  though  I  am  not  sure  I  shall 
go  in  immediately.  I  must  reconnoitre  a  little  first.  That 
makes  me  so  very  happy  to  have  met  you.  I  think  it's 
very  wonderful — your  knowing  me.' 

Doctor  Prance  did  not  repudiate  this  compliment,  but 
she  presently  observed  :  '  You  didn't  pass  out  of  my  mind 
entirely,  because  I  have  heard  about  you  since,  from  Miss 
Birdseye.' 

'  Ah  yes,  I  saw  her  in  the  spring.  I  hope  she  is  in 
health  and  happiness.' 

'  She  is  always  in  happiness,  but  she  can't  be  said  to  be 
in  health.  She  is  very  weak ;  she  is  failing.' 

'  I  am  very  sorry  for  that.' 

'She  is  also  visiting  Miss  Chancellor,'  Doctor  Prance 
observed,  after  a  pause  which  was  an  illustration  of  an  ap- 
pearance she  had  of  thinking  that  certain  things  didn't  at 
all  imply  some  others. 

'  Why,  my  cousin  has  got  all  the  distinguished  women  ! ' 
Basil  Ransom  exclaimed. 

4 Is  Miss  Chancellor  your  cousin?  There  isn't  much 
family  resemblance.  Miss  Birdseye  came  down  for  the 
benefit  of  the  country  air,  and  I  came  down  to  see  if  I  could 
help  her  to  get  some  good  from  it.  She  wouldn't  much,  if 
she  were  left  to  herself.  Miss  Birdseye  has  a  very  fine 
character,  but  she  hasn't  much  idea  of  hygiene.'  Doctor 
Prance  was  evidently  more  and  more  disposed  to  be  chatty. 
Ransom  appreciated  this  fact,  and  said  he  hoped  she,  too, 
was  getting  some  good  from  the  country-air — he  was  afraid 
she  was  very  much  confined  to  her  profession,  in  Boston ; 
to  which  she  replied — 'Well,  I  was  just  taking  a  little 
exercise  along  the  road.  I  presume  you  don't  realise  what 
it  is  to  be  one  of  four  ladies  grouped  together  in  a  small 
frame-house.' 

Ransom  remembered  how  he  had  liked  her  before,  and 
he  felt  that,  as  the  phrase  was,  he  was  going  to  like  her 
again.  He  wanted  to  express  his  good-will  to  her,  and 
would  greatly  have  enjoyed  being  at  liberty  to  offer  her  a 
cigar.  He  didn't  know  what  to  offer  her  or  what  to  do, 


352  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxv. 

unless  he  should  invite  her  to  sit  with  him  on  a  fence.  He 
did  realise  perfectly  what  the  situation  in  the  small  frame- 
house  must  be,  and  entered  with  instant  sympathy  into  the 
feelings  which  had  led  Doctor  Prance  to  detach  herself 
from  the  circle  and  wander  forth  under  the  constellations, 
all  of  which  he  was  sure  she  knew.  He  asked  her  per- 
mission to  accompany  her  on  her  walk,  but  she  said  she 
was  not  going  much  further  in  that  direction ;  she  was  going 
to  turn  round.  He  turned  round  with  her,  and  they  went 
back  together  to  the  village,  in  which  he  at  last  began  to 
discover  a  certain  consistency,  signs  of  habitation,  houses 
disposed  with  a  rough  resemblance  to  a  plan.  The  road 
wandered  among  them  with  a  kind  of  accommodating  sinu- 
osity, and  there  were  even  cross-streets,  and  an  oil-lamp  on 
a  corner,  and  here  and  there  the  small  sign  of  a  closed  shop, 
with  an  indistinctly  countrified  lettering.  There  were  lights 
now  in  the  windows  of  some  of  the  houses,  and  Doctor 
Prance  mentioned  to  her  companion  several  of  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  little  town,  who  appeared  all  to  rejoice  in  the 
prefix  of  captain.  They  were  retired  shipmasters ;  there 
was  quite  a  little  nest  of  these  worthies,  two  or  three  of 
whom  might  be  seen  lingering  in  their  dim  doorways,  as  if 
they  were  conscious  of  a  want  of  encouragement  to  sit  up, 
and  yet  remembered  the  nights  in  far-away  waters  when 
they  would  not  have  thought  of  turning  in  at  all.  Marmion 
called  itself  a  town,  but  it  was  a  good  deal  shrunken  since 
the  decline  in  the  shipbuilding  interest;  it  turned  out  a 
good  many  vessels  every  year,  in  the  palmy  days,  before 
the  war.  There  were  shipyards  still,  where  you  could 
almost  pick  up  the  old  shavings,  the  old  nails  and  rivets, 
but  they  were  grass-grown  now,  and  the  water  lapped  them 
without  anything  to  interfere.  There  was  a  kind  of  arm  of 
the  sea  put  in ;  it  went  up  some  way,  it  wasn't  the  real  sea, 
but  very  quiet,  like  a  river ;  that  was  more  attractive  to 
some.  Doctor  Prance  didn't  say  the  place  was  picturesque, 
or  quaint,  or  weird ;  but  he  could  see  that  was  what  she 
meant  when  she  said  it  was  mouldering  away.  Even  under 
the  mantle  of  night  he  himself  gathered  the  impression  that 
it  had  had  a  larger  life,  seen  better  days.  Doctor  Prance 
made  no  remark  designed  to  elicit  from  him  an  account  of 


xxxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  353 

his  motives  in  coming  to  Marmion  ;  she  asked  him  neither 
when  he  had  arrived  nor  how  long  he  intended  to  stay. 
His  allusion  to  his  cousinship  with  Miss  Chancellor  might 
have  served  to  her  mind  as  a  reason;  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  would  have  been  open  to  her  to  wonder  why,  if  he 
had  come  to  see  the  young  ladies  from  Charles  Street,  he 
was  not  in  more  of  a  hurry  to  present  himself.  It  was 
plain  Doctor  Prance  didn't  go  into  that  kind  of  analysis. 
If  Ransom  had  complained  to  her  of  a  sore  throat,  she 
would  have  inquired  with  precision  about  his  symptoms ; 
but  she  was  incapable  of  asking  him  any  question  with  a 
social  bearing.  Sociably  enough,  however,  they  continued 
to  wander  through  the  principal  street  of  the  little  town, 
darkened  in  places  by  immense  old  elms,  which  made  a 
blackness  overhead.  There  was  a  salt  smell  in  the  air,  as 
if  they  were  nearer  the  water;  Doctor  Prance  said  that 
Olive's  house  was  at  the  other  end. 

*  I  shall  take  it  as  a  kindness  if,  for  this  evening,  you 
don't  mention  that  you  have  happened  to  meet  me,'  Ransom 
remarked,  after  a  little.  He  had  changed  his  mind  about 
giving  notice. 

'  Well,  I  wouldn't/  his  companion  replied ;  as  if  she 
didn't  need  any  caution  in  regard  to  making  vain  state- 
ments. 

'  I  want  to  keep  my  arrival  a  little  surprise  for  to-morrow. 
It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  see  Miss  Birdseye,'  he 
went  on,  rather  hypocritically,  as  if  that  at  bottom  had  been 
to  his  mind  the  main  attraction  of  Marmion. 

Doctor  Prance  did  not  reveal  her  private  comment, 
whatever  it  was,  on  this  intimation;  she  only  said,  after 
some  hesitation — '  Well,  I  presume  the  old  lady  will  take 
quite  an  interest  in  your  being  here.' 

'  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  capable  even  of  that  degree  of 
philanthropy.' 

'  Well,  she  has  charity  for  all,  but  she  does — even  she — 
prefer  her  own  side.  She  regards  you  as  quite  an  acquisi- 
tion/ 

Ransom  could  not  but  feel  flattered  at  the  idea  that  he 
had  been  a  subject  of  conversation — as  this  implied — ir 
the  little  circle  at  Miss  Chancellor's ;  but  he  was  at  a  ]' 

2   A 


354  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxv. 

for  the  moment,  to  perceive  what  he  had  done  up  to  this 
time  to  gratify  the  senior  member  of  the  group.  '  I  hope 
she  will  find  me  an  acquisition  after  I  have  been  here  a  few 
days/  he  said,  laughing. 

'  Well,  she  thinks  you  are  one  of  the  most  important 
converts  yet,'  Doctor  Prance  replied,  in  a  colourless  way,  as 
if  she  would  not  have  pretended  to  explain  why. 

'A  convert — me?  Do  you  mean  of  Miss  Tarrant's?' 
It  had  come  over  him  that  Miss  Birdseye,  in  fact,  when  he 
was  parting  with  her  after  their  meeting  in  Boston,  had 
assented  to  his  request  for  secrecy  (which  at  first  had  struck 
her  as  somewhat  unholy),  on  the  ground  that  Verena  would 
bring  him  into  the  fold.  He  wondered  whether  that  young 
lady  had  been  telling  her  old  friend  that  she  had  succeeded 
with  him.  He  thought  this  improbable;  but  it  didn't 
matter,  and  he  said,  gaily,  '  Well,  I  can  easily  let  her  sup- 
pose so !' 

It  was  evident  that  it  would  be  no  easier  for  Doctor 
Prance  to  subscribe  to  a  deception  than  it  had  been  for  her 
venerable  patient ;  but  she  went  so  far  as  to  reply,  '  Well,  I 
hope  you  won't  let  her  suppose  you  are  where  you  were  that 
time  I  conversed  with  you.  I  could  see  where  you  were 
then  !' 

' It  was  in  about  the  same  place  you  were,  wasn't  it?' 

'  Well,'  said  Doctor  Prance,  with  a  small  sigh,  *  I  am 
afraid  I  have  moved  back,  if  anything ! '  Her  sigh  told  him 
a  good  deal ;  it  seemed  a  thin,  self-controlled  protest 
against  the  tone  of  Miss  Chancellor's  interior,  of  which  it 
was  her  present  fortune  to  form  a  part :  and  the  way  she 
hovered  round,  indistinct  in  the  gloom,  as  if  she  were 
rather  loath  to  resume  her  place  there,  completed  his  im- 
pression that  the  little  doctress  had  a  line  of  her  own. 

'  That,  at  least,  must  distress  Miss  Birdseye,'  he  said, 
reproachfully. 

'  Not  much,  because  I  am  not  of  importance.  They 
think  women  the  equals  of  men ;  but  they  are  a  great  deal 
more  pleased  when  a  man  joins  than  when  a  woman  does.' 

Ransom  complimented  Doctor  Prance  on  the  lucidity 
of  her  mind,  and  then  he  said :  '  Is  Miss  Birdseye  really 
sick  ?  Is  her  condition  very  precarious  ?  ' 


xxxv.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  355 

1  Well,  she  is  very  old,  and  very — very  gentle,'  Doctor 
Prance  answered,  hesitating  a  moment  for  her  adjective. 
*  Under  those  circumstances  a  person  may  flicker  out.' 

'  We  must  trim  the  lamp,'  said  Ransom ;  ' 1  will  take 
my  turn,  with  pleasure,  in  watching  the  sacred  flame.' 

'It  will  be  a  pity  if  she  doesn't  live  to  hear  Miss 
Tarrant's  great  effort,'  his  companion  went  on. 

1  Miss  Tarrant's  ?     What's  that  ? ' 

'Well,  it's  the  principal  interest,  in  there.'  And  Doctor 
Prance  now  vaguely  indicated,  with  a  movement  of  her  head, 
a  small  white  house,  much  detached  from  its  neighbours, 
which  stood  on  their  left,  with  its  back  to  the  water,  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  road.  It  exhibited  more  signs  of  anima- 
tion than  any  of  its  fellows ;  several  windows,  notably  those 
of  the  ground  floor,  were  open  to  the  warm  evening,  and  a 
large  shaft  of  light  was  projected  upon  the  grassy  wayside 
in  front  of  it.  Ransom,  in  his  determination  to  be  discreet, 
checked  the  advance  of  his  companion,  who  added  presently, 
with  a  short,  suppressed  laugh — '  You  can  see  it  is,  from 
that!'  He  listened,  to  ascertain  what  she  meant,  and 
after  an  instant  a  sound  came  to  his  ear — a  sound  he  knew 
already  well,  which  carried  the  accents  of  Verena  Tarrant, 
in  ample  periods  and  cadences,  out  into  the  stillness  of  the 
August  night. 

'  Murder,  what  a  lovely  voice  ! '  he  exclaimed,  involun- 
tarily. 

Doctor  Prance's  eye  gleamed  towards  him  a  moment, 
and  she  observed,  humorously  (she  was  relaxing  im- 
mensely), *  Perhaps  Miss  Birdseye  is  right ! '  Then,  as  he 
made  no  rejoinder,  only  listening  to  the  vocal  inflections 
that  floated  out  of  the  house,  she  went  on — '  She's  prac- 
tising her  speech.' 

*  Her  speech?     Is  she  going  to  deliver  one  here?' 

4  No,  as  soon  as  they  go  back  to  town — at  the  Music 
Hall.' 

Ransom's  attention  was  now  transferred  to  his  com- 
panion. '  Is  that  why  you  call  it  her  great  effort  ? ' 

*  Well,  so  they  think  it,  I  believe.     She  practises  that 
way  every  night;  she  reads  portions  of  it  aloud  to  Miss 
Chancellor  and  Miss  Birdseye.' 


356  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxv. 

*  And   that's   the   time   you   choose   for   your   walk  ? ' 
Ransom  said,  smiling. 

*  Well,  it's  the  time  my  old  lady  has  least  need  of  me ; 
she's  too  absorbed.' 

Doctor  Prance  dealt  in  facts ;  Ransom  had  already 
discovered  that;  and  some  of  her  facts  were  very  in- 
teresting. 

*  The  Music  Hall — isn't  that  your  great  building  ? '  he 
asked. 

'  Well,  it's  the  biggest  we've  got ;  it's  pretty  big,  but  it 
isn't  so  big  as  Miss  Chancellor's  ideas,'  added  Doctor 
Prance.  'She  has  taken  it  to  bring  out  Miss  Tarrant 
before  the  general  public — she  has  never  appeared  that 
way  in  Boston — on  a  great  scale.  She  expects  her  to 
make  a  big  sensation.  It  will  be  a  great  night,  and  they 
are  preparing  for  it.  They  consider  it  her  real  beginning.' 

'And  this  is  the  preparation?'  Basil  Ransom  said. 

'  Yes  j  as  I  say,  it's  their  principal  interest.' 

Ransom  listened,  and  while  he  listened  he  meditated. 
He  had  thought  it  possible  Verena's  principles  might  have 
been  shaken  by  the  profession  of  faith  to  which  he  treated 
her  in  New  York ;  but  this  hardly  looked  like  it.  For 
some  moments  Doctor  Prance  and  he  stood  together  in 
silence. 

'You  don't  hear  the  words,'  the  doctor  remarked,  with 
a  smile  which,  in  the  dark,  looked  Mephistophelean. 

'Oh,  I  know  the  words!'  the  young  man  exclaimed, 
with  rather  a  groan,  as  he  offered  her  his  hand  for  good- 
night 


XXXVI. 

A  CERTAIN  prudence  had  determined  him  to  put  off  his  visit 
till  the  morning ;  he  thought  it  more  probable  that  at  that 
time  he  should  be  able  to  see  Verena  alone,  whereas  in 
the  evening  the  two  young  women  would  be  sure  to  be 
sitting  together.  When  the  morrow  dawned,  however, 
Basil  Ransom  felt  none  of  the  trepidation  of  the  pro- 
crastinator ;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  reception  that  awaited 
him,  but  he  took  his  way  to  the  cottage  designated  to  him 
overnight  by  Doctor  Prance,  with  the  step  of  a  man  much 
more  conscious  of  his  own  purpose  than  of  possible 
obstacles.  He  made  the  reflection,  as  he  went,  that  to  see 
a  place  for  the  first  time  at  night  is  like  reading  a  foreign 
author  in  a  translation.  At  the  present  hour — it  was 
getting  towards  eleven  o'clock — he  felt  that  he  was  dealing 
with  the  original.  The  little  straggling,  loosely -clustered 
town  lay  along  the  edge  of  a  blue  inlet,  on  the  other  side 
of  which  was  a  low,  wooded  shore,  with  a  gleam  of  white 
sand  where  it  touched  the  water.  The  narrow  bay  carried 
the  vision  outward  to  a  picture  that  seemed  at  once  bright 
and  dim — a  shining,  slumbering  summer-sea,  and  a  far-off, 
circling  line  of  coast,  which,  under  the  August  sun,  was 
hazy  and  delicate.  Ransom  regarded  the  place  as  a  town 
because  Doctor  Prance  had  called  it  one ;  but  it  was  a  town 
where  you  smelt  the  breath  of  the  hay  in  the  streets  and 
you  might  gather  blackberries  in  the  principal  square.  The 
houses  looked  at  each  other  across  the  grass — low,  rusty, 
crooked,  distended  houses,  with  dry,  cracked  faces  and  the 
dim  eyes  of  small -paned,  stiffly -sliding  windows.  Their 
little  door-yards  bristled  with  rank,  old-fashioned  flowers, 
mostly  yellow ;  and  on  the  quarter  that  stood  back  from 
the  sea  the  fields  sloped  upward,  and  the  woods  in  which 


358  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

they  presently  lost  themselves  looked  down  over  the  roofs. 
Bolts  and  bars  were  not  a  part  of  the  domestic  machinery 
of  Marmion,  and  the  responsive  menial,  receiving  the  visitor 
on  the  threshold,  was  a  creature  rather  desired  than  definitely 
possessed ;  so  that  Basil  Ransom  found  Miss  Chancellor's 
house-door  gaping  wide  (as  he  had  seen  it  the  night  before), 
and  destitute  even  of  a  knocker  or  a  bell -handle.  From 
where  he  stood  in  the  porch  he  could  see  the  whole  of  the 
little  sitting-room  on  the  left  of  the  hall — see  that  it 
stretched  straight  through  to  the  back  windows;  that  it 
was  garnished  with  photographs  of  foreign  works  of  art, 
pinned  upon  the  walls,  and  enriched  with  a  piano  and 
other  little  extemporised  embellishments,  such  as  ingenious 
women  lavish  upon  the  houses  they  hire  for  a  few  weeks. 
Verena  told  him  afterwards  that  Olive  had  taken  her  cottage 
furnished,  but  that  the  paucity  of  chairs  and  tables  and 
bedsteads  was  such  that  their  little  party  used  almost  to  sit 
down,  to  lie  down,  in  turn.  On  the  other  hand  they  had 
all  George  Eliot's  writings,  and  two  photographs  of  the 
Sistine  Madonna.  Ransom  rapped  with  his  stick  on  the 
lintel  of  the  door,  but  no  one  came  to  receive  him ;  so  he 
made  his  way  into  the  parlour,  where  he  observed  that  his 
cousin  Olive  had  as  many  German  books  as  ever  lying 
about.  He  dipped  into  this  literature,  momentarily,  accord- 
ing to  his  wont,  and  then  remembered  that  this  was  not 
what  he  had  come  for  and  that  as  he  waited  at  the  door  he 
had  seen,  through  another  door,  opening  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  hall,  signs  of  a  small  verandah  attached  to  the 
other  face  of  the  house.  Thinking  the  ladies  might  be 
assembled  there  in  the  shade,  he  pushed  aside  the  muslin 
curtain  of  the  back  window,  and  saw  that  the  advantages  of 
Miss  Chancellor's  summer-residence  were  in  this  quarter. 
There  was  a  verandah,  in  fact,  to  which  a  wide,  horizontal 
trellis,  covered  with  an  ancient  vine,  formed  a  kind  of 
extension.  Beyond  the  trellis  was  a  small,  lonely  garden ; 
beyond  the  garden  was  a  large,  vague,  woody  space,  where 
a  few  piles  of  old  timber  were  disposed,  and  which  he 
afterwards  learned  to  be  a  relic  of  the  shipbuilding  era 
described  to  him  by  Doctor  Prance ;  and  still  beyond  this 
again  was  the  charming  lake-like  estuary  he  had  already 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  359 

admired.  His  eyes  did  not  rest  upon  the  distance;  they 
were  attracted  by  a  figure  seated  under  the  trellis,  where 
the  chequers  of  sun,  in  the  interstices  of  the  vine-leaves,  fell 
upon  a  bright-coloured  rug  spread  out  on  the  ground.  The 
floor  of  the  roughly-constructed  verandah  was  so  low  that 
there  was  virtually  no  difference  in  the  level.  It  took 
Ransom  only  a  moment  to  recognise  Miss  Birdseye,  though 
her  back  was  turned  to  the  house.  She  was  alone; 
she  sat  there  motionless  (she  had  a  newspaper  in  her  lap, 
but  her  attitude  was  not  that  of  a  reader),  looking  at  the 
shimmering  bay.  She  might  be  asleep;  that  was  why 
Ransom  moderated  the  process  of  his  long  legs  as  he  came 
round  through  the  house  to  join  her.  This  precaution 
represented  his  only  scruple.  He  stepped  across  the 
verandah  and  stood  close  to  her,  but  she  did  not  appear  to 
notice  him.  Visibly,  she  was  dozing,  or  presumably,  rather, 
for  her  head  was  enveloped  in  an  old  faded  straw -hat, 
which  concealed  the  upper  part  of  her  face.  There  were 
two  or  three  other  chairs  near  her,  and  a  table  on  which 
were  half  a  dozen  books  and  periodicals,  together  with  a 
glass  containing  a  colourless  liquid,  on  the  top  of  which  a 
spoon  was  laid.  Ransom  desired  only  to  respect  her  repose, 
so  he  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  and  waited  till  she  should 
become  aware  of  his  presence.  He  thought  Miss  Chan- 
cellor's back-garden  a  delightful  spot,  and  his  jaded  senses 
tasted  the  breeze — the  idle,  wandering  summer-wind — that 
stirred  the  vine-leaves  over  his  head.  The  hazy  shores  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water,  which  had  tints  more  delicate 
than  the  street-vistas  of  New  York  (they  seemed  powdered 
with  silver,  a  sort  of  midsummer  light),  suggested  to  him  a 
land  of  dreams,  a  country  in  a  picture.  Basil  Ransom  had 
seen  very  few  pictures,  there  were  none  in  Mississippi ;  but 
he  had  a  vision  at  times  of  something  that  would  be  more 
refined  than  the  real  world,  and  the  situation  in  which  he 
now  found  himself  pleased  him  almost  as  much  as  if  it  had 
been  a  striking  work  of  art.  He  was  unable  to  see,  as  I 
have  said,  whether  Miss  Birdseye  were  taking  in  the 
prospect  through  open  or  only,  imagination  aiding  (she  had 
plenty  of  that),  through  closed,  tired,  dazzled  eyes.  She 
appeared  to  him,  as  the  minutes  elapsed  and  he  sat  beside 


360  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

her,  the  incarnation  of  well-earned  rest,  of  patient,  sub- 
missive superannuation.  At  the  end  of  her  long  day's 
work  she  might  have  been  placed  there  to  enjoy  this  dim 
prevision  of  the  peaceful  river,  the  gleaming  shores,  of  the 
paradise  her  unselfish  life  had  certainly  qualified  her  to 
enter,  and  which,  apparently,  would  so  soon  be  opened  to 
her.  After  a  while  she  said,  placidly,  without  turning : 

'I  suppose  it's  about  time  I  should  take  my  remedy 
again.  It  does  seem  as  if  she  had  found  the  right  thing ; 
don't  you  think  so?' 

1  Do  you  mean  the  contents  of  that  tumbler  ?  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  give  it  to  you,  and  you  must  tell  me  how 
much  you  take.'  And  Basil  Ransom,  getting  up,  possessed 
himself  of  the  glass  on  the  table. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Miss  Birdseye  pushed  back 
her  straw-hat  by  a  movement  that  was  familiar  to  her,  and 
twisting  about  her  muffled  figure  a  little  (even  in  August 
she  felt  the  cold,  and  had  to  be  much  covered  up  to  sit 
out),  directed  at  him  a  speculative,  unastonished  gaze. 

'One  spoonful — two?'  Ransom  asked,  stirring  the  dose 
and  smiling. 

'  Well,  I  guess  I'll  take  two  this  time.' 

1  Certainly,  Doctor  Prance  couldn't  help  finding  the  right 
thing,'  Ransom  said,  as  he  administered  the  medicine ; 
while  the  movement  with  which  she  extended  her  face  to 
take  it  made  her  seem  doubly  childlike. 

He  put  down  the  glass,  and  she  relapsed  into  her 
position  j  she  seemed  to  be  considering.  '  It's  homoeo- 
pathic,' she  remarked,  in  a  moment. 

'  Oh,  I  have  no  doubt  of  that ;  I  presume  you  wouldn't 
take  anything  else.' 

'  Well,  it's  generally  admitted  now  to  be  the  true  system.' 

Ransom  moved  closer  to  her,  placed  himself  where  she 
could  see  him  better.  '  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  the  true 
system,'  he  said,  bending  towards  her  in  a  friendly  way ; 
'  I'm  sure  you  have  it  in  everything. '  He  was  not  often 
hypocritical ;  but  when  he  was  he  went  all  lengths. 

1  Well,  I  don't  know  that  any  one  has  a  right  to  say  that. 
I  thought  you  were  Verena,'  she  added  in  a  moment,  taking 
him  in  again  with  her  mild,  deliberate  vision. 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  361 

1 1  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  recognise  me ;  of  course 
you  didn't  know  I  was  here — I  only  arrived  last  night.' 

'Well,  I'm  glad  you  have  come  to  see  Olive  now.' 

*  You  remember  that  I  wouldn't  do  that  when  I  met  you 
last?' 

'  You  asked  me  not  to  mention  to  her  that  I  had  met 
you ;  that's  what  I  principally  recall.' 

'  And  don't  you  remember  what  I  told  you  I  wanted  to 
do?  I  wanted  to  go  out  to  Cambridge  and  see  Miss 
Tarrant.  Thanks  to  the  information  that  you  were  so  good 
as  to  give  me,  I  was  able  to  do  so.' 

'  Yes,  she  gave  me  quite  a  little  description  of  your  visit,' 
said  Miss  Birdseye,  with  a  smile  and  a  vague  sound  in  her 
throat — a  sort  of  pensive,  private  reference  to  the  idea  of 
laughter — of  which  Ransom  never  learned  the  exact  signific- 
ance, though  he  retained  for  a  long  time  afterwards  a  kindly 
memory  of  the  old  lady's  manner  at  the  moment. 

'  I  don't  know  how  much  she  enjoyed  it,  but  it  was  an 
immense  pleasure  to  me ;  so  great  a  one  that,  as  you  see,  I 
have  come  to  call  upon  her  again.' 

'Then,  I  presume,  she  has  shaken  you?' 

'  She  has  shaken  me  tremendously ! '  said  Ransom, 
laughing. 

'  Well,  you'll  be  a  great  addition,'  Miss  Birdseye  returned. 
*  And  this  time  your  visit  is  also  for  Miss  Chancellor  ?  ' 

'That  depends  on  whether  she  will  receive  me.' 

'  Well,  if  she  knows  you  are  shaken,  that  will  go  a  great 
way,'  said  Miss  Birdseye,  a  little  musingly,  as  if  even  to  her 
unsophisticated  mind  it  had  been  manifested  that  one's 
relations  with  Miss  Chancellor  might  be  ticklish.  'But 
she  can't  receive  you  now — can  she  ? — because  she's  out. 
She  has  gone  to  the  post-office  for  the  Boston  letters,  and 
they  get  so  many  every  day  that  she  had  to  take  Verena 
with  her  to  help  her  carry  them  home.  One  of  them 
wanted  to  stay  with  me,  because  Doctor  Prance  has  gone 
fishing,  but  I  said  I  presumed  I  could  be  left  alone  for 
about  seven  minutes.  I  know  how  they  love  to  be 
together ;  it  seems  as  if  one  couldn't  go  out  without  the 
other.  That's  what  they  came  down  here  for,  because  it's 
quiet,  and  it  didn't  look  as  if  there  was  any  one  else  they 


362  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

would  be  much  drawn  to.     So  it  would  be  a  pity  for  me  to 
come  down  after  them  just  to  spoil  it ! ' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  shall  spoil  it,  Miss  Birdseye.' 

I  Oh,  well,  a  gentleman,'  murmured  the  ancient  woman. 

'  Yes,  what  can  you  expect  of  a  gentleman  ?  I  certainly 
shall  spoil  it  if  I  can.' 

'  You  had  better  go  fishing  with  Doctor  Prance,'  said 
Miss  Birdseye,  with  a  serenity  which  showed  that  she  was  far 
from  measuring  the  sinister  quality  of  the  announcement  he 
had  just  made. 

I 1  shan't  object  to  that  at  all.     The  days  here  must  be 
very  long — very  full  of  hours.     Have  you  got  the  doctor 
with  you  ? '  Ransom  inquired,  as  if  he  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  her. 

'Yes,  Miss  Chancellor  invited  us  both;  she  is  very 
thoughtful.  She  is  not  merely  a  theoretic  philanthropist — 
she  goes  into  details,'  said  Miss  Birdseye,  presenting  her 
large  person,  in  her  chair,  as  if  she  herself  were  only  an 
item.  '  It  seems  as  if  we  were  not  so  much  wanted  in 
Boston,  just  in  August.' 

'  And  here  you  sit  and  enjoy  the  breeze,  and  admire  the 
view,'  the  young  man  remarked,  wondering  when  the  two 
messengers,  whose  seven  minutes  must  long  since  have 
expired,  would  return  from  the  post-office. 

*  Yes,  I  enjoy  everything  in  this  little  old-world  place  ;  I 
didn't  suppose  I  should  be  satisfied  to  be  so  passive.  It's 
a  great  contrast  to  my  former  exertions.  But  somehow  it 
doesn't  seem  as  if  there  were  any  trouble  or  any  wrong 
round  here;  and  if  there  should  be,  there  are  Miss 
Chancellor  and  Miss  Tarrant  to  look  after  it.  They  seem 
to  think  I  had  better  fold  my  hands.  Besides,  when  help- 
ful, generous  minds  begin  to  flock  in  from  your  part  of  the 
country,'  Miss  Birdseye  continued,  looking  at  him  from 
under  the  distorted  and  discoloured  canopy  of  her  hat  with 
a  benignity  which  completed  the  idea  in  any  cheerful 
sense  he  chose. 

He  felt  by  this  time  that  he  was  committed  to  rather  a 
dishonest  part ;  he  was  pledged  not  to  give  a  shock  to  her 
optimism.  This  might  cost  him,  in  the  coming  days,  a 
good  deal  of  dissimulation,  but  he  was  now  saved  from  any 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  363 

further  expenditure  of  ingenuity  by  certain  warning  sounds 
which  admonished  him  that  he  must  keep  his  wits  about 
him  for  a  purpose  more  urgent.  There  were  voices  in  the 
hall  of  the  house,  voices  he  knew,  which  came  nearer, 
quickly;  so  that  before  he  had  time  to  rise  one  of  the 
speakers  had  come  out  with  the  exclamation — c  Dear  Miss 
Birdseye,  here  are  seven  letters  for  you  ! '  The  words  fell 
to  the  ground,  indeed,  before  they  were  fairly  spoken,  and 
when  Ransom  got  up,  turning,  he  saw  Olive  Chancellor 
standing  there,  with  the  parcel  from  the  post-office  in  her 
hand.  She  stared  at  him  in  sudden  horror;  for  the 
moment  her  self-possession  completely  deserted  her.  There 
was  so  little  of  any  greeting  in  her  face  save  the  greeting  of 
dismay,  that  he  felt  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  say  to  her, 
nothing  that  could  mitigate  the  odious  fact  of  his  being 
there.  He  could  only  let  her  take  it  in,  let  her  divine  that, 
this  time,  he  was  not  to  be  got  rid  of.  In  an  instant — to 
ease  off  the  situation — he  held  out  his  hand  for  Miss 
Birdseye' s  letters,  and  it  was  a  proof  of  Olive's  having 
turned  rather  faint  and  weak  that  she  gave  them  up  to  him. 
He  delivered  the  packet  to  the  old  lady,  and  now  Verena 
had  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  house.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  him,  she  blushed  crimson  ;  but  she  did  not,  like  Olive, 
stand  voiceless. 

*  Why,  Mr.  Ransom,'  she  cried  out,  t  where  in  the  world 
were  you  washed  ashore  ? '  Miss  Birdseye,  meanwhile, 
taking  her  letters,  had  no  appearance  of  observing  that  the 
encounter  between  Olive  and  her  visitor  was  a  kind  of 
concussion. 

It  was  Verena  who  eased  off  the  situation;  her  gay 
challenge  rose  to  her  lips  as  promptly  as  if  she  had  had  no 
cause  for  embarrassment.  She  was  not  confused  even  when 
she  blushed,  and  her  alertness  may  perhaps  be  explained  by 
the  habit  of  public  speaking.  Ransom  smiled  at  her  while 
she  came  forward,  but  he  spoke  first  to  Olive,  who  had 
already  turned  her  eyes  away  from  him  and  gazed  at  the 
blue  sea-view  as  if  she  were  wondering  what  was  going  to 
happen  to  her  at  last. 

1  Of  course  you  are  very  much  surprised  to  see  me ;  but 
I  hope  to  be  able  to  induce  you  to  regard  me  not  absolutely 


364  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

in  the  light  of  an  intruder.  I  found  your  door  open,  and  I 
walked  in,  and  Miss  Birdseye  seemed  to  think  I  might  stay. 
Miss  Birdseye,  I  put  myself  under  your  protection;  I 
invoke  you ;  I  appeal  to  you/  the  young  man  went  on. 
'  Adopt  me,  answer  for  me,  cover  me  with  the  mantle  of 
your  charity ! ' 

Miss  Birdseye  looked  up  from  her  letters,  as  if  at  first 
she  had  only  faintly  heard  his  appeal.  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  Olive  to  Verena ;  then  she  said,  *  Doesn't  it  seem  as 
if  we  had  room  for  all?  When  I  remember  what  I  have 
seen  in  the  South,  Mr.  Ransom's  being  here  strikes  me  as 
a  great  triumph.' 

Olive  evidently  failed  to  understand,  and  Verena  broke 
in  with  eagerness,  '  It  was  by  my  letter,  of  course,  that  you 
knew  we  were  here.  The  one  I  wrote  just  before  we  came, 
Olive,'  she  went  on.  *  Don't  you  remember  I  showed  it  to 
you?' 

At  the  mention  of  this  act  of  submission  on  her  friend's 
part  Olive  started,  flashing  her  a  strange  look ;  then  she 
said  to  Basil  that  she  didn't  see  why  he  should  explain  so 
much  about  his  coming ;  every  one  had  a  right  to  come. 
It  was  a  very  charming  place ;  it  ought  to  do  any  one  good. 
'  But  it  will  have  one  defect  for  you,'  she  added ;  '  three- 
quarters  of  the  summer  residents  are  women  ! ' 

This  attempted  pleasantry  on  Miss  Chancellor's  part,  so 
unexpected,  so  incongruous,  uttered  with  white  lips  and  cold 
eyes,  struck  Ransom  to  that  degree  by  its  oddity  that  he 
could  not  resist  exchanging  a  glance  of  wonder  with  Verena, 
who,  if  she  had  had  the  opportunity,  could  probably  have  ex- 
plained to  him  the  phenomenon.  Olive  had  recovered  herself, 
reminded  herself  that  she  was  safe,  that  her  companion  in 
New  York  had  repudiated,  denounced  her  pursuer ;  and,  as 
a  proof  to  her  own  sense  of  her  security,  as  well  as  a  touching 
mark  to  Verena  that  now,  after  what  had  passed,  she  had 
no  fear,  she  felt  that  a  certain  light  mockery  would  be 
effective. 

'  Ah,  Miss  Olive,  don't  pretend  to  think  I  love  your  sex 
so  little,  when  you  know  that  what  you  really  object  to  in 
me  is  that  I  love  it  too  much  ! '  Ransom  was  not  brazen, 
he  was  not  impudent,  he  was  really  a  very  modest  man ; 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  365 

but  he  was  aware  that  whatever  he  said  or  did  he  was 
condemned  to  seem  impudent  now,  and  he  argued  within 
himself  that  if  he  was  to  have  the  dishonour  of  being  thought 
brazen  he  might  as  well  have  the  comfort.  He  didn't 
care  a  straw,  in  truth,  how  he  was  judged  or  how  he  might 
offend;  he  had  a  purpose  which  swallowed  up  such 
inanities  as  that,  and  he  was  so  full  of  it  that  it  kept  him 
firm,  balanced  him,  gave  him  an  assurance  that  might  easily 
have  been  confounded  with  a  cold  detachment.  '  This  place 
will  do  me  good,'  he  pursued ;  '  I  haven't  had  a  holiday  for 
more  than  two  years,  I  couldn't  have  gone  another  day;  I 
was  finished.  I  would  have  written  to  you  beforehand  that 
I  was  coming,  but  I  only  started  at  a  few  hours'  notice.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  this  would  be  just  what  I  wanted ;  I 
remembered  what  Miss  Tarrant  had  said  in  her  note,  that 
it  was  a  place  where  people  could  lie  on  the  ground  and 
wear  their  old  clothes,  I  delight  to  lie  on  the  ground,  and 
all  my  clothes  are  old.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  stay  three  or 
four  weeks.' 

Olive  listened  till  he  had  done  speaking ;  she  stood  a 
single  moment  longer,  and  then,  without  a  word,  a  glance, 
she  rushed  into  the  house.  Ransom  saw  that  Miss 
Birdseye  was  immersed  in  her  letters ;  so  he  went  straight 
to  Verena  and  stood  before  her,  looking  far  into  her  eyes. 
He  was  not  smiling  now,  as  he  had  been  in  speaking  to 
Olive.  'Will  you  come  somewhere  apart,  where  I  can 
speak  to  you  alone  ? ' 

'  Why  have  you  done  this  ?  It  was  not  right  in  you  to 
come  ! '  Verena  looked  still  as  if  she  were  blushing,  but 
Ransom  perceived  he  must  allow  for  her  having  been 
delicately  scorched  by  the  sun. 

f  I  have  come  because  it  is  necessary — because  I  have 
something  very  important  to  say  to  you.  A  great  number 
of  things.' 

'  The  same  things  you  said  in  New  York  ?  I  don't  want 
to  hear  them  again — they  were  horrible  ! ' 

'No,  not  the  same — different  ones.  I  want  you  to 
come  out  with  me,  away  from  here.' 

'  You  always  want  me  to  come  out !  We  can't  go  out 
here ;  we  are  out,  as  much  as  we  can  be  !'  Verena  laughed. 


366  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

She  tried  to  turn  it  off — feeling  that  something  really 
impended. 

*  Come  down  into  the  garden,  and  out  beyond  there — 
to  the  water,  where  we  can  speak.  It's  what  I  have  come 
for  •  it  was  not  for  what  I  told  Miss  Olive !  ' 

He  had  lowered  his  voice,  as  if  Miss  Olive  might  still 
hear  them,  and  there  was  something  strangely  grave — 
altogether  solemn,  indeed — in  its  tone.  Verena  looked 
around  her,  at  the  splendid  summer  day,  at  the  much- 
swathed,  formless  figure  of  Miss  Birdseye,  holding  her 
letter  inside  her  hat.  *  Mr.  Ransom ! '  she  articulated 
then,  simply ;  and  as  her  eyes  met  his  again  they  showed 
him  a  couple  of  tears. 

'It's  not  to  make  you  suffer,  I  honestly  believe.  I 
don't  want  to  say  anything  that  will  hurt  you.  How  can 
I  possibly  hurt  you,  when  I  feel  to  you  as  I  do  ?'  he  went 
on,  with  suppressed  force. 

She  said  no  more,  but  all  her  face  entreated  him  to  let 
her  off,  to  spare  her ;  and  as  this  look  deepened,  a  quick 
sense  of  elation  and  success  began  to  throb  in  his  heart, 
for  it  told  him  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  know.  It  told 
him  that  she  was  afraid  of  him,  that  she  had  ceased  to 
trust  herself,  that  the  way  he  had  read  her  nature  was  the 
right  way  (she  was  tremendously  open  to  attack,  she  was 
meant  for  love,  she  was  meant  for  him),  and  that  his 
arriving  at  the  point  at  which  he  wished  to  arrive  was  only 
a  question  of  time.  This  happy  consciousness  made  him 
extraordinarily  tender  to  her ;  he  couldn't  put  enough  reas- 
surance into  his  smile,  his  low  murmur,  as  he  said  :  '  Only 
give  me  ten  minutes ;  don't  receive  me  by  turning  me  away. 
It's  my  holiday — my  poor  little  holiday ;  don't  spoil  it.' 

Three  minutes  later  Miss  Birdseye,  looking  up  from 
her  letter,  saw  them  move  together  through  the  bristling 
garden  and  traverse  a  gap  in  the  old  fence  which  inclosed 
the  further  side  of  it.  They  passed  into  the  ancient  ship- 
yard which  lay  beyond,  and  which  was  now  a  mere  vague, 
grass-grown  approach  to  the  waterside,  bestrewn  with  a 
few  remnants  of  supererogatory  timber.  She  saw  them 
stroll  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  bay  and  stand  there, 
taking  the  soft  breeze  in  their  faces.  She  watched  them  a 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  367 

little,  and  it  warmed  her  heart  to  see  the  stiff-necked  young 
Southerner  led  captive  by  a  daughter  of  New  England 
trained  in  the  right  school,  who  would  impose  her  opinions 
in  their  integrity.  Considering  how  prejudiced  he  must 
have  been  he  was  certainly  behaving  very  well;  even  at 
that  distance  Miss  Birdseye  dimly  made  out  that  there 
was  something  positively  humble  in  the  way  he  invited 
Verena  Tarrant  to  seat  herself  on  a  low  pile  of  weather- 
blackened  planks,  which  constituted  the  principal  furniture 
of  the  place,  and  something,  perhaps,  just  a  trifle  too  ex- 
pressive of  righteous  triumph  in  the  manner  in  which  the 
girl  put  the  suggestion  by  and  stood  where  she  liked,  a 
little  proudly,  turning  a  good  deal  away  from  him.  Miss 
Birdseye  could  see  as  much  as  this,  but  she  couldn't  hear, 
so  that  she  didn't  know  what  it  was  that  made  Verena  turn 
suddenly  back  to  him,  at  something  he  said.  If  she  had 
known,  perhaps  his  observation  would  have  struck  her  as 
less  singular — under  the  circumstances  in  which  these  two 
young  persons  met — than  it  may  appear  to  the  reader. 

'  They  have  accepted  one  of  my  articles ;  I  think  it's 
the  best.'  These  were  the  first  words  that  passed  Basil 
Ransom's  lips  after  the  pair  had  withdrawn  as  far  as  it 
was  possible  to  withdraw  (in  that  direction)  from  the  house.  • 

c  Oh,  is  it  printed — when  does  it  appear  ? '  Verena 
asked  that  question  instantly ;  it  sprang  from  her  lips  in 
a  manner  that  completely  belied  the  air  of  keeping  herself 
at  a  distance  from  him  which  she  had  worn  a  few  moments 
before. 

He  didn't  tell  her  again  this  time,  as  he  had  told  her 
when,  on  the  occasion  of  their  walk  together  in  New  York, 
she  expressed  an  inconsequent  hope  that  his  fortune  as  a 
rejected  contributor  would  take  a  turn — he  didn't  remark 
to  her  once  more  that  she  was  a  delightful  being ;  he  only 
went  on  (as  if  her  revulsion  were  a  matter  of  course),  to 
explain  everything  he  could,  so  that  she  might  as  soon  as 
possible  know  him  better  and  see  how  completely  she  could 
trust  him.  '  That  was,  at  bottom,  the  reason  I  came  here. 
The  essay  in  question  is  the  most  important  thing  I  have 
done  in  the  way  of  a  literary  attempt,  and  I  determined  to 
give  up  the  game  or  to  persist,  according  as  I  should  be 


368  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

able  to  bring  it  to  the  light  or  not.  The  other  day  I  got  a 
letter  from  the  editor  of  the  "  Rational  Review,"  telling  me 
that  he  should  be  very  happy  to  print  it,  that  he  thought  it 
very  remarkable,  and  that  he  should  be  glad  to  hear  from 
me  again.  He  shall  hear  from  me  again — he  needn't  be 
afraid  !  It  contained  a  good  many  of  the  opinions  I  have 
expressed  to  you,  and  a  good  many  more  besides.  I  really 
believe  it  will  attract  some  attention.  At  any  rate,  the 
simple  fact  that  it  is  to  be  published  makes  an  era  in  my 
life.  This  will  seem  pitiful  to  you,  no  doubt,  who  publish 
yourself,  have  been  before  the  world  these  several  years,  and 
are  flushed  with  every  kind  of  triumph ;  but  to  me  it's 
simply  a  tremendous  affair.  It  makes  me  believe  I  may  do 
something  j  it  has  changed  the  whole  way  I  look  at  my 
future.  I  have  been  building  castles  in  the  air,  and  I  have 
put  you  in  the  biggest  and  fairest  of  them.  That's  a  great 
change,  and,  as  I  say,  it's  really  why  I  came  on.' 

Verena  lost  not  a  word  of  this  gentle,  conciliatory, 
explicit  statement ;  it  was  full  of  surprises  for  her,  and  as 
soon  as  Ransom  had  stopped  speaking  she  inquired:  'Why, 
didn't  you  feel  satisfied  about  your  future  before?' 

Her  tone  made  him  feel  how  little  she  had  suspected 
he  could  have  the  weakness  of  a  discouragement,  how  little 
of  a  question  it  must  have  seemed  to  her  that  he  would 
one  day  triumph  on  his  own  erratic  line.  It  was  the 
sweetest  tribute  he  had  yet  received  to  the  idea  that  he 
might  have  ability;  the  letter  of  the  editor  of  the  'Rational 
Review '  was  nothing  to  it.  '  No,  I  felt  very  blue  ;  it  didn't 
seem  to  me  at  all  clear  that  there  was  a  place  for  me  in  the 
world.' 

'  Gracious  !'  said  Verena  Tarrant. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Miss  Birdseye,  who  had 
returned  to  her  letters  (she  had  a  correspondent  at  Framing- 
ham  who  usually  wrote  fifteen  pages),  became  aware  that 
Verena,  who  was  now  alone,  was  re-entering  the  house. 
She  stopped  her  on  her  way,  and  said  she  hoped  she  hadn't 
pushed  Mr.  Ransom  overboard. 

*  Oh  no ;  he  has  gone  off — round  the  other  way.' 

'  Well,  I  hope  he  is  going  to  speak  for  us  soon.' 

Verena  hesitated  a  moment.     '  He  speaks  with  the  pen. 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  369 

He  has  written  a  very  fine  article — for  the  "Rational 
Review." ' 

Miss  Birdseye  gazed  at  her  young  friend  complacently ; 
the  sheets  of  her  interminable  letter  fluttered  in  the  breeze. 
*  Well,  it's  delightful  to  see  the  way  it  goes  on,  isn't  it?' 

Verena  scarcely  knew  what  to  say ;  then,  remembering 
that  Doctor  Prance  had  told  her  that  they  might  lose  their 
dear  old  companion  any  day,  and  confronting  it  with  some- 
thing Basil  Ransom  had  just  said — that  the  *  Rational 
Review '  was  a  quarterly  and  the  editor  had  notified  him 
that  his  article  would  appear  only  in  the  number  after  the 
next — she  reflected  that  perhaps  Miss  Birdseye  wouldn't  be 
there,  so  many  months  later,  to  see  how  it  was  her  supposed 
consort  had  spoken.  She  might,  therefore,  be  left  to 
believe  what  she  liked  to  believe,  without  fear  of  a  day  of 
reckoning.  Verena  committed  herself  to  nothing  more 
confirmatory  than  a  kiss,  however,  which  the  old  lady's 
displaced  head-gear  enabled  her  to  imprint  upon  her  fore- 
head and  which  caused  Miss  Birdseye  to  exclaim,  '  Why, 
Verena  Tarrant,  how  cold  your  lips  are  ! '  It  was  not 
surprising  to  Verena  to  hear  that  her  lips  were  cold;  a 
mortal  chill  had  crept  over  her,  for  she  knew  that  this  time 
she  should  have  a  tremendous  scene  with  Olive. 

She  found  her  in  her  room,  to  which  she  had  fled  on 
quitting  Mr.  Ransom's  presence;  she  sat  in  the  window, 
having  evidently  sunk  into  a  chair  the  moment  she  came 
in,  a  position  from  which  she  must  have  seen  Verena  walk 
through  the  garden  and  down  to  the  water  with  the  in- 
truder. She  remained  as  she  had  collapsed,  quite  pro- 
strate; her  attitude  was  the  same  as  that  other  time 
Verena  had  found  her  waiting,  in  New  York.  What 
Olive  was  likely  to  say  to  her  first  the  girl  scarcely  knew ; 
her  mind,  at  any  rate,  was  full  of  an  intention  of  her  own. 
She  went  straight  to  her  and  fell  on  her  knees  before  her, 
taking  hold  of  the  hands  which  were  clasped  together, 
with  nervous  intensity,  in  Miss  Chancellor's  lap.  Verena 
remained  a  moment,  looking  up  at  her,  and  then  said : 

*  There  is  something  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  without  a 
moment's  delay ;  something  I  didn't  tell  you  at  the  time  it 
happened,  nor  afterwards.  Mr.  Ransom  came  out  to  see 

2  B 


370  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

me  once,  at  Cambridge,  a  little  while  before  we  went  to 
New  York.  He  spent  a  couple  of  hours  with  me ;  we 
took  a  walk  together  and  saw  the  colleges.  It  was  after 
that  that  he  wrote  to  me — when  I  answered  his  letter,  as  I 
told  you  in  New  York.  I  didn't  tell  you  then  of  his  visit. 
We  had  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  him,  and  I  kept  that 
back.  I  did  so  on  purpose ;  I  can't  explain  why,  except 
that  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you,  and  that  I  thought  it  better. 
But  now  I  want  you  to  know  everything ;  when  you  know 
that,  you  will  know  everything.  It  was  only  one  visit — 
about  two  hours.  I  enjoyed  it  very  much — he  seemed  so 
much  interested.  One  reason  I  didn't  tell  you  was  that  I 
didn't  want  you  to  know  that  he  had  come  on  to  Boston, 
and  called  on  me  in  Cambridge,  without  going  to  see  you. 
I  thought  it  might  affect  you  disagreeably.  I  suppose  you 
will  think  I  deceived  you ;  certainly  I  left  you  with  a  wrong 
impression.  But  now  I  want  you  to  know  all — all !' 

Verena  spoke  with  breathless  haste  and  eagerness;  there 
was  a  kind  of  passion  in  the  way  she  tried  to  expiate  her 
former  want  of  candour.  Olive  listened,  staring;  at  first 
she  seemed  scarcely  to  understand.  But  Verena  perceived 
that  she  understood  sufficiently  when  she  broke  out :  '  You 
deceived  me — you  deceived  me !  Well,  I  must  say  I  like 
your  deceit  better  than  such  dreadful  revelations !  And 
what  does  anything  matter  when  he  has  come  after  you 
now?  What  does  he  want — what  has  he  come  for?' 

'  He  has  come  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife.' 

Verena  said  this  with  the  same  eagerness,  with  as  deter- 
mined an  air  of  not  incurring  any  reproach  this  time.  But 
as  soon  as  she  had  spoken  she  buried  her  head  in  Olive's 
lap. 

Olive  made  no  attempt  to  raise  it  again,  and  returned 
none  of  the  pressure  of  her  hands  \  she  only  sat  silent  for  a 
time,  during  which  Verena  wondered  that  the  idea  of  the 
episode  at  Cambridge,  laid  bare  only  after  so  many  months, 
should  not  have  struck  her  more  deeply.  Presently  she 
saw  it  was  because  the  horror  of  what  had  just  happened 
drew  her  off  from  it.  At  last  Olive  asked  :  '  Is  that  what 
he  told  you,  off  there  by  the  water?' 

'  Yes' — and  Verena  looked  up — 'he  wanted  me  to  know 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  371 

it  right  away.  He  says  it's  only  fair  to  you  that  he  should 
give  notice  of  his  intentions.  He  wants  to  try  and  make 
me  like  him — so  he  says.  He  wants  to  see  more  of  me, 
and  he  wants  me  to  know  him  better.' 

Olive  lay  back  in  her  chair,  with  dilated  eyes  and  parted 
lips.  '  Verena  Tarrant,  what  is  there  between  you  ?  what 
can  I  hold  on  to,  what  can  I  believe  ?  Two  hours,  in  Cam- 
bridge, before  we  went  to  New  York?'  The  sense  that 
Verena  had  been  perfidious  there — perfidious  in  her  reti- 
cence— now  began  to  roll  over  her.  ( Mercy  of  heaven, 
how  you  did  act !' 

'Olive,  it  was  to  spare  you.' 

'  To  spare  me  ?  If  you  really  wished  to  spare  me  he 
wouldn't  be  here  now  !' 

Miss  Chancellor  flashed  this  out  with  a  sudden  violence, 
a  spasm  which  threw  Verena  off  and  made  her  rise  to  her 
feet.  For  an  instant  the  two  young  women  stood  con- 
fronted, and  a  person  who  had  seen  them  at  that  moment 
might  have  taken  them  for  enemies  rather  than  friends. 
But  any  such  opposition  could  last  but  a  few  seconds. 
Verena  replied,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice  which  was  not 
that  of  passion,  but  of  charity :  '  Do  you  mean  that  I  ex- 
pected him,  that  I  brought  him  ?  I  never  in  my  life  was 
more  surprised  at  anything  than  when  I  saw  him  there.' 

'  Hasn't  he  the  delicacy  of  one  of  his  own  slave-drivers  ? 
Doesn't  he  know  you  loathe  him?' 

Verena  looked  at  her  friend  with  a  degree  of  majesty 
which,  with  her,  was  rare.  'I  don't  loathe  him — I  only 
dislike  his  opinions.' 

'Dislike!  Oh,  misery!'  And  Olive  turned  away  to 
the  open  window,  leaning  her  forehead  against  the  lifted 
sash. 

Verena  hesitated,  then  went  to  her,  passing  her  arm 
round  her.  'Don't  scold  me!  help  me — help  me!'  she 
murmured. 

Olive  gave  her  a  sidelong  look ;  then,  catching  her  up 
and  facing  her  again — '  Will  you  come  away,  now,  by  the 
next  train?' 

'  Flee  from  him  again,  as  I  did  in  New  York  ?  No,  no, 
Olive  Chancellor,  that's  not  the  way,'  Verena  went  on, 


372  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvi. 

reasoningly,  as  if  all  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  were  seated 
on  her  lips.  'Then  how  can  we  leave  Miss  Birdseye, 
in  her  state?  We  must  stay  here — we  must  fight  it  out 
here.' 

'Why  not  be  honest,  if  you  have  been  false — really 
honest,  not  only  half  so  ?  Why  not  tell  him  plainly  that 
you  love  him?' 

'Love  him,  Olive?  why,  I  scarcely  know  him.' 
' You'll  have  a  chance,  if  he  stays  a  month  !' 
'  I  don't  dislike  him,  certainly,  as  you  do.    But  how  can 
I  love  him  when  he  tells  me  he  wants  me  to  give  up 
everything,  all  our   work,  our  faith,  our  future,  never   to 
give  another  address,  to  open  my  lips  in  public  ?    How  can 
I  consent  to  that?'  Verena  went  on,  smiling  strangely. 
'He  asks  you  that,  just  that  way?' 
'  No  ;  it's  not  that  way.     It's  very  kindly.' 
'  Kindly  ?      Heaven  help  you,  don't  grovel !     Doesn't 
he  know  it's  my  house?'  Olive  added,  in  a  moment. 
'  Of  course  he  won't  come  into  it,  if  you  forbid  him.' 
'So  that  you  may  meet  him  in  other  places — on  the 
shore,  in  the  country?' 

'I  certainly  shan't  avoid  him,  hide  away  from  him,' 
said  Verena,  proudly.  '  I  thought  I  made  you  believe,  in 
New  York,  that  I  really  cared  for  our  aspirations.  The 
way  for  me  then  is  to  meet  him,  feeling  conscious  of  my 
strength.  What  if  I  do  like  him  ?  what  does  it  matter  ?  I 
like  my  work  in  the  world,  I  like  everything  I  believe  in, 
better.' 

Olive  listened  to  this,  and  the  memory  of  how,  in  the 
house  in  Tenth  Street,  Verena  had  rebuked  her  doubts, 
professsed  her  own  faith  anew,  came  back  to  her  with  a 
force  which  made  the  present  situation  appear  slightly  less 
terrific.  Nevertheless,  she  gave  no  assent  to  the  girl's 
logic ;  she  only  replied  :  '  But  you  didn't  meet  him  there ; 
you  hurried  away  from  New  York,  after  I  was  willing  you 
should  stay.  He  affected  you  very  much  there ;  you  were 
not  so  calm  when  you  came  back  to  me  from  your  expedi- 
tion to  the  park  as  you  pretend  to  be  now.  To  get  away 
from  him  you  gave  up  all  the  rest.' 

'  I  know  I  wasn't  so  calm.     But  now  I  have  had  three 


xxxvi.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  373 

months  to  think  about  it — about  the  way  he  affected  me 
there.  I  take  it  very  quietly.' 

'  No,  you  don't ;  you  are  not  calm  now  ! ' 

Verena  was  silent  a  moment,  while  Olive's  eyes  con- 
tinued to  search  her,  accuse  her,  condemn  her.  '  It's  all 
the  more  reason  you  shouldn't  give  me  stab  after  stab,'  she 
replied,  with  a  gentleness  which  was  infinitely  touching. 

It  had  an  instant  effect  upon  Olive;  she  burst  into  tears, 
threw  herself  on  her  friend's  bosom.  'Oh,  don't  desert 
me — don't  desert  me,  or  you'll  kill  me  in  torture,'  she 
moaned,  shuddering. 

*  You  must  help  me — you  must  help  me ! '  cried  Verena, 
imploringly  too. 


XXXVII. 

BASIL  RANSOM  spent  nearly  a  month  at  Marmion ;  in 
announcing  this  fact  I  am  very  conscious  of  its  extra- 
ordinary character.  Poor  Olive  may  well  have  been  thrown 
back  into  her  alarms  by  his  presenting  himself  there ;  for 
after  her  return  from  New  York  she  took  to  her  soul  the 
conviction  that  she  had  really  done  with  him.  Not  only 
did  the  impulse  of  revulsion  under  which  Verena  had 
demanded  that  their  departure  from  Tenth  Street  should  be 
immediate  appear  to  her  a  proof  that  it  had  been  sufficient 
for  her  young  friend  to  touch  Mr.  Ransom's  moral  texture 
with  her  finger,  as  it  were,  in  order  to  draw  back  for  ever ; 
but  what  she  had  learned  from  her  companion  of  his  own 
manifestations,  his  apparent  disposition  to  throw  up  the 
game,  added  to  her  feeling  of  security.  He  had  spoken  to 
Verena  of  their  little  excursion  as  his  last  opportunity,  let 
her  know  that  he  regarded  it  not  as  the  beginning  of  a  more 
intimate  acquaintance  but  as  the  end  even  of  such  relations 
as  already  existed  between  them.  He  gave  her  up,  for 
reasons  best  known  to  himself;  if  he  wanted  to  frighten 
Olive  he  judged  that  he  had  frightened  her  enough :  his 
Southern  chivalry  suggested  to  him  perhaps  that  he  ought 
to  let  her  off  before  he  had  worried  her  to  death.  Doubt- 
less, too,  he  had  perceived  how  vain  it  was  to  hope  to  make 
Verena  abjure  a  faith  so  solidly  founded ;  and  though  he 
admired  her  enough  to  wish  to  possess  her  on  his  own 
terms,  he  shrank  from  the  mortification  which  the  future 
would  have  in  keeping  for  him — that  of  finding  that,  after 
six  months  of  courting  and  in  spite  of  all  her  sympathy, 
her  desire  to  do  what  people  expected  of  her,  she  despised 
his  opinions  as  much  as  the  first  day.  Olive  Chancellor 


xxxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  375 

was  able  to  a  certain  extent  to  believe  what  she  wished  to 
believe,  and  that  was  one  reason  why  she  had  twisted 
Verena's  flight  from  New  York,  just  after  she  let  her  friend 
see  how  much  she  should  like  to  drink  deeper  of  the  cup, 
into  a  warrant  for  living  in  a  fool's  paradise.  If  she  had 
been  less  afraid,  she  would  have  read  things  more  clearly  ; 
she  would  have  seen  that  we  don't  run  away  from  people 
unless  we  fear  them  and  that  we  don't  fear  them  unless  we 
know  that  we  are  unarmed.  Verena  feared  Basil  Ransom 
now  (though  this  time  she  declined  to  run) ;  but  now  she 
had  taken  up  her  weapons,  she  had  told  Olive  she  was 
exposed,  she  had  asked  her  to  be  her  defence.  Poor  Olive 
was  stricken  as  she  had  never  been  before,  but  the  extre- 
mity of  her  danger  gave  her  a  desperate  energy.  The  only 
comfort  in  her  situation  was  that  this  time  Verena  had 
confessed  her  peril,  had  thrown  herself  into  her  hands.  '  I 
like  him — I  can't  help  it — I  do  like  him.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  him,  I  don't  want  to  embrace  his  ideas,  which  are 
unspeakably  false  and  horrible ;  but  I  like  him  better  than 
any  gentleman  I  have  seen.'  So  much  as  this  the  girl 
announced  to  her  friend  as  soon  as  the  conversation  of 
which  I  have  just  given  a  sketch  was  resumed,  as  it  was 
very  soon,  you  may  be  sure,  and  very  often,  in  the  course 
of  the  next  few  days.  That  was  her  way  of  saying  that  a 
great  crisis  had  arrived  in  her  life,  and  the  statement  needed 
very  little  amplification  to  stand  as  a  shy  avowal  that  she 
too  had  succumbed  to  the  universal  passion.  Olive  had 
had  her  suspicions,  her  terrors,  before ;  but  she  perceived 
now  how  idle  and  foolish  they  had  been,  and  that  this  was 
a  different  affair  from  any  of  the  '  phases '  of  which  she  had 
hitherto  anxiously  watched  the  development.  As  I  say, 
she  felt  it  to  be  a  considerable  mercy  that  Verena's  attitude 
was  frank,  for  it  gave  her  something  to  take  hold  of;  she 
could  no  longer  be  put  off  with  sophistries  about  receiving 
visits  from  handsome  and  unscrupulous  young  men  for  the 
sake  of  the  opportunities  it  gave  one  to  convert  them.  She 
took  hold,  accordingly,  with  passion,  with  fury;  after  the 
shock  of  Ransom's  arrival  had  passed  away  she  determined 
that  he  should  not  find  her  chilled  into  dumb  submission. 
Verena  had  told  her  that  she  wanted  her  to  hold  her  tight, 


376  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvii. 

to  rescue  her ;  and  there  was  no  fear  that,  for  an  instant, 
she  should  sleep  at  her  post. 

'  I  like  him — I  like  him ;  but  I  want  to  hate ' 

'You  want  to  hate  him  !'  Olive  broke  in. 

'No,  I  want  to  hate  my  liking.  I  want  you  to  keep 
before  me  all  the  reasons  why  I  should — many  of  them  so 
fearfully  important.  Don't  let  me  lose  sight  of  anything ! 
Don't  be  afraid  I  shall  not  be  grateful  when  you  remind 
me.' 

That  was  one  of  the  singular  speeches  that  Verena  made 
in  the  course  of  their  constant  discussion  of  the  terrible 
question,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  made  a  great 
many.  The  strangest  of  all  was  when  she  protested,  as 
she  did  again  and  'again  to  Olive,  against  the  idea  of  their 
seeking  safety  in  retreat.  She  said  there  was  a  want  of 
dignity  in  it — that  she  had  been  ashamed,  afterwards,  of 
what  she  had  done  in  rushing  away  from  New  York.  This 
care  for  her  moral  appearance  was,  on  Verena's  part,  some- 
thing new ;  inasmuch  as,  though  she  had  struck  that  note 
on  previous  occasions — had  insisted  on  its  being  her  duty 
to  face  the  accidents  and  alarms  of  life — she  had  never 
erected  such  a  standard  in  the  face  of  a  disaster  so  sharply 
possible.  It  was  not  her  habit  either  to  talk  or  to  think 
about  her  dignity,  and  when  Olive  found  her  taking  that 
tone  she  felt  more  than  ever  that  the  dreadful,  ominous, 
fatal  part  of  the  situation  was  simply  that  now,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  the  history  of  their  sacred  friendship,  Verena 
was  not  sincere.  She  was  not  sincere  when  she  told  her 
that  she  wanted  to  be  helped  against  Mr.  Ransom — when 
she  exhorted  her,  that  way,  to  keep  everything  that  was 
salutary  and  fortifying  before  her  eyes.  Olive  did  not  go 
so  far  as  to  believe  that  she  was  playing  a  part  and  putting 
her  off  with  words  which,  glossing  over  her  treachery,  only 
made  it  more  cruel;  she  would  have  admitted  that  that 
treachery  was  as  yet  unwitting,  that  Verena  deceived  herself 
first  of  all,  thinking  she  really  wished  to  be  saved.  Her 
phrases  about  her  dignity  were  insincere,  as  well  as  her 
pretext  that  they  must  stay  to  look  after  Miss  Birdseye :  as 
if  Doctor  Prance  were  not  abundantly  able  to  discharge 
that  function  and  would  not  be  enchanted  to  get  them  out 


xxxvn.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  377 

of  the  house!  Olive  had  perfectly  divined  by  this  time 
that  Doctor  Prance  had  no  sympathy  with  their  movement, 
no  general  ideas;  that  she  was  simply  shut  up  to  petty 
questions  of  physiological  science  and  of  her  own  pro- 
fessional activity.  She  would  never  have  invited  her  down 
if  she  had  realised  this  in  advance  so  much  as  the  doctor's 
dry  detachment  from  all  their  discussions,  their  readings 
and  practisings,  her  constant  expeditions  to  fish  and 
botanise,  subsequently  enabled  her  to  do.  She  was  very 
narrow,  but  it  did  seem  as  if  she  knew  more  about  Miss 
Birdseye's  peculiar  physical  conditions — they  were  very 
peculiar — than  any  one  else,  and  this  was  a  comfort  at  a 
time  when  that  admirable  woman  seemed  to  be  suffering  a 
loss  of  vitality. 

'  The  great  point  is  that  it  must  be  met  some  time,  and 
it  will  be  a  tremendous  relief  to  have  it  over.  He  is  de- 
termined to  have  it  out  with  me,  and  if  the  battle  doesn't 
come  off  to-day  we  shall  have  to  fight  it  to-morrow.  I 
don't  see  why  this  isn't  as  good  a  time  as  any  other.  My 
lecture  for  the  Music  Hall  is  as  good  as  finished,  and  I 
haven't  got  anything  else  to  do;  so  I  can  give  all  my 
attention  to  our  personal  struggle.  It  requires  a  good  deal, 
you  would  admit,  if  you  knew  how  wonderfully  he  can  talk. 
If  we  should  leave  this  place  to-morrow  he  would  come  after 
us  to  the  very  next  one.  He  would  follow  us  everywhere. 
A  little  while  ago  we  could  have  escaped  him,  because  he 
says  that  then  he  had  no  money.  He  hasn't  got  much 
now,  but  he  has  got  enough  to  pay  his  way.  He  is  so 
encouraged  by  the  reception  of  his  article  by  the  editor  of 
the  "  Rational  Review,"  that  he  is  sure  that  in  future  his 
pen  will  be  a  resource.' 

These  remarks  were  uttered  by  Verena  after  Basil 
Ransom  had  been  three  days  at  Marmion,  and  when  she 
reached  this  point  her  companion  interrupted  her  with  the 
inquiry,  '  Is  that  what  he  proposes  to  support  you  with — 
his  pen?' 

'Oh  yes;  of  course  he  admits  we  should  be  terribly 
poor.' 

'  And  this  vision  of  a  literary  career  is  based  entirely 
upon  an  article  that  hasn't  yet  seen  the  light  ?  I  don't  see 


378  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvu. 

how  a  man  of  any  refinement  can  approach  a  woman  with 
so  beggarly  an  account  of  his  position  in  life.' 

'  He  says  he  wouldn't — he  would  have  been  ashamed — 
three  months  ago ;  that  was  why,  when  we  were  in  New 
York,  and  he  felt,  even  then — well  (so  he  says)  all  he  feels 
now,  he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  persist,  to  let  me  go. 
But  just  lately  a  change  has  taken  place ;  his  state  of  mind 
altered  completely,  in  the  course  of  a  week,  in  consequence 
of  the  letter  that  editor  wrote  him  about  his  contribution, 
and  his  paying  for  it  right  off.  It  was  a  remarkably 
flattering  letter.  He  says  he  believes  in  his  future  now; 
he  has  before  him  a  vision  of  distinction,  of  influence,  and 
of  fortune,  not  great,  perhaps,  but  sufficient  to  make  life 
tolerable.  He  doesn't  think  life  is  very  delightful,  in  the 
nature  of  things ;  but  one  of  the  best  things  a  man  can  do 
with  it  is  to  get  hold  of  some  woman  (of  course,  she  must 
please  him  very  much,  to  make  it  worth  while),  whom  he 
may  draw  close  to  him.' 

'  And  couldn't  he  get  hold  of  any  one  but  you — among 
all  the  exposed  millions  of  our  sex?'  poor  Olive  groaned. 
'Why  must  he  pick  you  out,  when  everything  he  knew 
about  you  showed  you  to  be,  exactly,  the  very  last?' 

c  That's  just  what  I  have  asked  him,  and  he  only  remarks 
that  there  is  no  reasoning  about  such  things.  He  fell  in 
love  with  me  that  first  evening,  at  Miss  Birdseye's.  So 
you  see  there  was  some  ground  for  that  mystic  apprehension 
of  yours.  It  seems  as  if  I  pleased  him  more  than  any  one.' 

Olive  flung  herself  over  on  the  couch,  burying  her  face 
in  the  cushions,  which  she  tumbled  in  her  despair,  and 
moaning  out  that  he  didn't  love  Verena,  he  never  had 
loved  her,  it  was  only  his  hatred  of  their  cause  that  made 
him  pretend  it  \  he  wanted  to  do  that  an  injury,  to  do  it 
the  worst  he  could  think  of.  He  didn't  love  her,  he  hated 
her,  he  only  wanted  to  smother  her,  to  crush  her,  to  kill 
her — as  she  would  infallibly  see  that  he  would  if  she 
listened  to  him.  It  was  because  he  knew  that  her  voice 
had  magic  in  it,  and  from  the  moment  he  caught  its  first 
note  he  had  determined  to  destroy  it.  It  was  not  tender- 
ness that  moved  him — it  was  devilish  malignity ;  tenderness 
would  be  incapable  of  requiring  the  horrible  sacrifice  that 


xxxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  379 

he  was  not  ashamed  to  ask,  of  requiring  her  to  commit 
perjury  and  blasphemy,  to  desert  a  work,  an  interest,  with 
which  her  very  heart-strings  were  interlaced,  to  give  the  lie 
to  her  whole  young  past,  to  her  purest,  holiest  ambitions. 
Olive  put  forward  no  claim  of  her  own,  breathed,  at  first, 
at  least,  not  a  word  of  remonstrance  in  the  name  of  her 
personal  loss,  of  their  blighted  union ;  she  only  dwelt  upon 
the  unspeakable  tragedy  of  a  defection  from  their  standard, 
of  a  failure  on  Verena's  part  to  carry  out  what  she  had 
undertaken,  of  the  horror  of  seeing  her  bright  career  blotted 
out  with  darkness  and  tears,  of  the  joy  and  elation  that 
would  fill  the  breast  of  all  their  adversaries  at  this  illustrious, 
consummate  proof  of  the  fickleness,  the  futility,  the  pre- 
destined servility,  of  women.  A  man  had  only  to  whistle 
for  her,  and  she  who  had  pretended  most  was  delighted  to 
come  and  kneel  at  his  feet.  Olive's  most  passionate  protest 
was  summed  up  in  her  saying  that  if  Verena  were  to  forsake 
them  it  would  put  back  the  emancipation  of  women  a 
hundred  years.  She  did  not,  during  these  dreadful  days, 
talk  continuously ;  she  had  long  periods  of  pale,  intensely 
anxious,  watchful  silence,  interrupted  by  outbreaks  of 
passionate  argument,  entreaty,  invocation.  It  was  Verena 
who  talked  incessantly,  Verena  who  was  in  a  state  entirely 
new  to  her,  and,  as  any  one  could  see,  in  an  attitude  en- 
tirely unnatural  and  overdone.  If  she  was  deceiving  her- 
self, as  Olive  said,  there  was  something  very  affecting  in 
her  effort,  her  ingenuity.  If  she  tried  to  appear  to  Olive 
impartial,  coldly  judicious,  in  her  attitude  with  regard  to 
Basil  Ransom,  and  only  anxious  to  see,  for  the  moral  satis- 
faction of  the  thing,  how  good  a  case,  as  a  lover,  he  might 
make  out  for  himself  and  how  much  he  might  touch  her 
susceptibilities,  she  endeavoured,  still  more  earnestly,  to 
practise  this  fraud  upon  her  own  imagination.  She 
abounded  in  every  proof  that  she  should  be  in  despair  if 
she  should  be  overborne,  and  she  thought  of  arguments 
even  more  convincing,  if  possible,  than  Olive's,  why  she 
should  hold  on  to  her  old  faith,  why  she  should  resist  even 
at  the  cost  of  acute  temporary  suffering.  She  was  voluble, 
fluent,  feverish ;  she  was  perpetually  bringing  up  the  sub- 
ject, as  if  to  encourage  her  friend,  to  show  how  she 


38o  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvii. 

kept  possession  of  her  judgment,   how  independent  she 
remained. 

No  stranger  situation  can  be  imagined  than  that  of  these 
extraordinary  young  women  at  this  juncture;  it  was  so 
singular  on  Verena's  part,  in  particular,  that  I  despair  of 
presenting  it  to  the  reader  with  the  air  of  reality.  To 
understand  it,  one  must  bear  in  mind  her  peculiar  frankness, 
natural  and  acquired,  her  habit  of  discussing  questions, 
sentiments,  moralities,  her  education,  in  the  atmosphere  of 
lecture-rooms,  of  seances^  her  familiarity  with  the  vocabulary 
of  emotion,  the  mysteries  of  '  the  spiritual  life.'  She  had 
learned  to  breathe  and  move  in  a  rarefied  air,  as  she  would 
have  learned  to  speak  Chinese  if  her  success  in  life  had 
depended  upon  it;  but  this  dazzling  trick,  and  all  her 
artlessly  artful  facilities,  were  not  a  part  of  her  essence,  an 
expression  of  her  innermost  preferences.  What  was  a  part 
of  her  essence  was  the  extraordinary  generosity  with  which 
she  could  expose  herself,  give  herself  away,  turn  herself 
inside  out,  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  person  who  made 
demands  of  her.  Olive,  as  we  know,  had  made  the  reflec- 
tion that  no  one  was  naturally  less  preoccupied  with  the 
idea  of  her  dignity,  and  though  Verena  put  it  forward  as  an 
excuse  for  remaining  where  they  were,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  in  reality  she  was  very  deficient  in  the  desire  to  be 
consistent  with  herself.  Olive  had  contributed  with  all  her 
zeal  to  the  development  of  Verena's  gift;  but  I  scarcely 
venture  to  think  now,  what  she  may  have  said  to  herself,  in 
the  secrecy  of  deep  meditation,  about  the  consequences  of 
cultivating  an  abundant  eloquence.  Did  she  say  that  Verena 
was  attempting  to  smother  her  now  in  her  own  phrases  ?  did 
she  view  with  dismay  the  fatal  effect  of  trying  to  have  an 
answer  for  everything  ?  From  Olive's  condition  during  these 
lamentable  weeks  there  is  a  certain  propriety — a  delicacy  en- 
joined by  the  respect  for  misfortune — in  averting  our  head. 
She  neither  ate  nor  slept ;  she  could  scarcely  speak  without 
bursting  into  tears ;  she  felt  so  implacably,  insidiously 
baffled.  She  remembered  the  magnanimity  with  which  she 
had  declined  (the  winter  before  the  last)  to  receive  the  vow 
of  eternal  maidenhood  which  she  had  at  first  demanded 
and  then  put  by  as  too  crude  a  test,  but  which  Verena,  for 


xxxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  381 

a  precious  hour,  for  ever  flown,  would  then  have  been  willing 
to  take.  She  repented  of  it  with  bitterness  and  rage ;  and 
then  she  asked  herself,  more  desperately  still,  whether  even 
if  she  held  that  pledge  she  should  be  brave  enough  to  en- 
force it  in  the  face  of  actual  complications.  She  believed 
that  if  it  were  in  her  power  to  say,  '  No,  I  won't  let  you  off; 
I  have  your  solemn  word,  and  I  won't!'  Verena  would 
bow  to  that  decree  and  remain  with  her  j  but  the  magic 
would  have  passed  out  of  her  spirit  for  ever,  the  sweetness 
out  of  their  friendship,  the  efficacy  out  of  their  work.  She 
said  to  her  again  and  again  that  she  had  utterly  changed 
since  that  hour  she  came  to  her,  in  New  York,  after  her 
morning  with  Mr.  Ransom,  and  sobbed  out  that  they  must 
hurry  away.  Then  she  had  been  wounded,  outraged, 
sickened,  and  in  the  interval  nothing  had  happened,  nothing 
but  that  one  exchange  of  letters,  which  she  knew  about,  to 
bring  her  round  to  a  shameless  tolerance.  Shameless 
Verena  admitted  it  to  be ;  she  assented  over  and  over  to 
this  proposition,  and  explained,  as  eagerly  each  time  as  if  it 
were  the  first,  what  it  was  that  had  come  to  pass,  what  it 
was  that  had  brought  her  round.  It  had  simply  come  over 
her  that  she  liked  him,  that  this  was  the  true  point  of  view, 
the  only  one  from  which  one  could  consider  the  situation 
in  a  way  that  would  lead  to  what  she  called  a  real  solution 
— a  permanent  rest.  On  this  particular  point  Verena  never 
responded,  in  the  liberal  way  I  have  mentioned,  without 
asseverating  at  the  same  time  that  what  she  desired  most 
in  the  world  was  to  prove  (the  picture  Olive  had  held  up 
from  the  first),  that  a  woman  could  live  on  persistently, 
clinging  to  a  great,  vivifying,  redemptory  idea,  without  the 
help  of  a  man.  To  testify  to  the  end  against  the  stale 
superstition — mother  of  every  misery — that  those  gentry 
were  as  indispensable  as  they  had  proclaimed  themselves 
on  the  house-tops — that,  she  passionately  protested,  was  as 
inspiring  a  thought  in  the  present  poignant  crisis  as  it  had 
ever  been. 

The  one  grain  of  comfort  that  Olive  extracted  from  the 
terrors  that  pressed  upon  her  was  that  now  she  knew  the 
worst ;  she  knew  it  since  Verena  had  told  her,  after  so  long 
and  so  ominous  a  reticence,  of  the  detestable  episode  at 


382  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvu. 

Cambridge.  That  seemed  to  her  the  worst,  because  it  had 
been  thunder  in  a  clear  sky ;  the  incident  had  sprung  from 
a  quarter  from  which,  months  before,  all  symptoms  appeared 
to  have  vanished.  Though  Verena  had  now  done  all  she 
could  to  make  up  for  her  perfidious  silence  by  repeating 
everything  that  passed  between  them  as  she  sat  with  Mr. 
Ransom  in  Monadnoc  Place  or  strolled  with  him  through 
the  colleges,  it  imposed  itself  upon  Olive  that  that  occasion 
was  the  key  of  all  that  had  happened  since,  that  he  had 
then  obtained  an  irremediable  hold  upon  her.  If  Verena 
had  spoken  at  the  time,  she  would  never  have  let  her  go  to 
New  York  j  the  sole  compensation  for  that  hideous  mistake 
was  that  the  girl,  recognising  it  to  the  full,  evidently  deemed 
now  that  she  couldn't  be  communicative  enough.  There 
were  certain  afternoons  in  August,  long,  beautiful  and 
terrible,  when  one  felt  that  the  summer  was  rounding  its 
curve,  and  the  rustle  of  the  full-leaved  trees  in  the  slanting 
golden  light,  in  the  breeze  that  ought  to  be  delicious, 
seemed  the  voice  of  the  coming  autumn,  of  the  warnings 
and  dangers  of  life — portentous,  insufferable  hours  when,  as 
she  sat  under  the  softly  swaying  vine-leaves  of  the  trellis 
with  Miss  Birdseye  and  tried,  in  order  to  still  her  nerves, 
to  read  something  aloud  to  her  guest,  the  sound  of  her  own 
quavering  voice  made  her  think  more  of  that  baleful  day  at 
Cambridge  than  even  of  the  fact  that  at  that  very  moment 
Verena  was  'off'  with  Mr.  Ransom — had  gone  to  take  the 
little  daily  walk  with  him  to  which  it  had  been  arranged 
that  their  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society  should  be  re- 
duced. Arranged,  I  say ;  but  that  is  not  exactly  the  word 
to  describe  the  compromise  arrived  at  by  a  kind  of  tacit 
exchange  of  tearful  entreaty  and  tightened  grasp,  after 
Ransom  had  made  it  definite  to  Verena  that  he  was  indeed 
going  to  stay  a  month  and  she  had  promised  that  she 
would  not  resort  to  base  evasions,  to  flight  (which  would 
avail  her  nothing,  he  notified  her),  but  would  give  him  a 
chance,  would  listen  to  him  a  few  minutes  every  day.  He 
had  insisted  that  the  few  minutes  should  be  an  hour,  and 
the  way  to  spend  it  was  obvious.  They  wandered  along 
the  waterside  to  a  rocky,  shrub-covered  point,  which  made 
a  walk  of  just  the  right  duratioa  Here  all  the  homely 


xxxvii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  383 

languor  of  the  region,  the  mild,  fragrant  Cape-quality,  the 
sweetness  of  white  sands,  quiet  waters,  low  promontories 
where  there  were  paths  among  the  barberries  and  tidal 
pools  gleamed  in  the  sunset — here  all  the  spirit  of  a  ripe 
summer-afternoon  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air.  There  were 
wood-walks  too ;  they  sometimes  followed  bosky  uplands, 
where  accident  had  grouped  the  trees  with  odd  effects  of 
*  style,'  and  where  in  grassy  intervals  and  fragrant  nooks  of 
rest  they  came  out  upon  sudden  patches  of  Arcady.  In 
such  places  Verena  listened  to  her  companion  with  her 
watch  in  her  hand,  and  she  wondered,  very  sincerely,  how 
he  could  care  for  a  girl  who  made  the  conditions  of  court- 
ship so  odious.  He  had  recognised,  of  course,  at  the  very 
first,  that  he  could  not  inflict  himself  again  upon  Miss 
Chancellor,  and  after  that  awkward  morning-call  I  have 
described  he  did  not  again,  for  the  first  three  weeks  of  his 
stay  at  Marmion,  penetrate  into  the  cottage  whose  back 
windows  overlooked  the  deserted  ship-yard.  Olive,  as  may 
be  imagined,  made,  on  this  occasion,  no  protest  for  the 
sake  of  being  ladylike  or  of  preventing  him  from  putting 
her  apparently  in  the  wrong.  The  situation  between  them 
was  too  grim ;  it  was  war  to  the  knife,  it  was  a  question  of 
which  should  pull  hardest.  So  Verena  took  a  tryst  with 
the  young  man  as  if  she  had  been  a  maid-servant  and  Basil 
Ransom  a  'follower.'  They  met  a  little  way  from  the 
house ;  beyond  it,  outside  the  village. 


XXXVIII. 

OLIVE  thought  she  knew  the  worst,  as  we  have  perceived  j 
but  the  worst  was  really  something  she  could  not  know, 
inasmuch  as  up  to  this  time  Verena  chose  as  little  to  con- 
fide to  her  on  that  one  point  as  she  was  careful  to  expatiate 
with  her  on  every  other.  The  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  the  object  of  Basil  Ransom's  merciless  devotion  since 
the  episode  in  New  York  was,  briefly,  just  this  change — 
that  the  words  he  had  spoken  to  her  there  about  her  genuine 
vocation,  as  distinguished  from  the  hollow  and  factitious 
ideal  with  which  her  family  and  her  association  with  Olive 
Chancellor  had  saddled  her — these  words,  the  most  effect- 
ive and  penetrating  he  had  uttered,  had  sunk  into  her  soul 
and  worked  and  fermented  there.  She  had  come  at  last  to 
believe  them,  and  that  was  the  alteration,  the  transformation. 
They  had  kindled  a  light  in  which  she  saw  herself  afresh 
and,  strange  to  say,  liked  herself  better  than  in  the  old 
exaggerated  glamour  of  the  lecture-lamps.  She  could  not 
tell  Olive  this  yet,  for  it  struck  at  the  root  of  everything, 
and  the  dreadful,  delightful  sensation  filled  her  with  a  kind 
of  awe  at  all  that  it  implied  and  portended.  She  was  to 
burn  everything  she  had  adored ;  she  was  to  adore  every- 
thing she  had  burned.  The  extraordinary  part  of  it  was 
that  though  she  felt  the  situation  to  be,  as  I  say,  tremen- 
dously serious,  she  was  not  ashamed  of  the  treachery  which 
she — yes,  decidedly,  by  this  time  she  must  admit  it  to  her- 
self— she  meditated.  It  was  simply  that  the  truth  had 
changed  sides ;  that  radiant  image  began  to  look  at  her 
from  Basil  Ransom's  expressive  eyes.  She  loved,  she  was 
in  love — she  felt  it  in  every  throb  of  her  being.  Instead  of 
being  constituted  by  nature  for  entertaining  that  sentiment 
in  an  exceptionally  small  degree  (which  had  been  the  im- 


xxxvm.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  385 

plication  of  her  whole  crusade,  the  warrant  for  her  offer  of 
old  to  Olive  to  renounce),  she  was  framed,  apparently,  to 
allow  it  the  largest  range,  the  highest  intensity.  It  was 
always  passion,  in  fact;  but  now  the  object  was  other. 
Formerly  she  had  been  convinced  that  the  fire  of  her  spirit 
was  a  kind  of  double  flame,  one  half  of  which  was  respon- 
sive friendship  for  a  most  extraordinary  person,  and  the 
other  pity  for  the  sufferings  of  women  in  general.  Verena 
gazed  aghast  at  the  colourless  dust  into  which,  in  three 
short  months  (counting  from  the  episode  in  New  York), 
such  a  conviction  as  that  could  crumble ;  she  felt  it  must 
be  a  magical  touch  that  could  bring  about  such  a  cataclysm. 
Why  Basil  Ransom  had  been  deputed  by  fate  to  exercise 
this  spell  was  more  than  she  could  say — poor  Verena,  who 
up  to  so  lately  had  flattered  herself  that  she  had  a  wizard's 
wand  in  her  own  pocket. 

When  she  saw  him  a  little  way  off,  about  five  o'clock — 
the  hour  she  usually  went  out  to  meet  him — waiting  for 
her  at  a  bend  of  the  road  which  lost  itself,  after  a  winding, 
straggling  mile  or  two,  in  the  indented,  insulated  'point,' 
where  the  wandering  bee  droned  through  the  hot  hours  with 
a  vague,  misguided  flight,  she  felt  that  his  tall,  watching 
figure,  with  the  low  horizon  behind,  represented  well  the 
importance,  the  towering  eminence  he  had  in  her  mind — 
the  fact  that  he  was  just  now,  to  her  vision,  the  most  definite 
and  upright,  the  most  incomparable,  object  in  the  world. 
If  he  had  not  been  at  his  post  when  she  expected  him  she 
would  have  had  to  stop  and  lean  against  something,  for 
weakness ;  her  whole  being  would  have  throbbed  more 
painfully  than  it  throbbed  at  present,  though  finding  him 
there  made  her  nervous  enough.  And  who  was  he,  what 
was  he  ?  she  asked  herself.  What  did  he  offer  her  besides 
a  chance  (in  which  there  was  no  compensation  of  brilliancy 
or  fashion),  to  falsify,  in  a  conspicuous  manner,  every  hope 
and  pledge  she  had  hitherto  given?  He  allowed  her, 
certainly,  no  illusion  on  the  subject  of  the  fate  she  should 
meet  as  his  wife ;  he  flung  over  it  no  rosiness  of  promised 
ease ;  he  let  her  know  that  she  should  be  poor,  withdrawn 
from  view,  a  partner  of  his  struggle,  of  his  severe,  hard, 
unique  stoicism.  When  he  spoke  of  such  things  as  these, 

2  C 


386  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

and  bent  his  eyes  on  her,  she  could  not  keep  the  tears  from 
her  own ;  she  felt  that  to  throw  herself  into  his  life  (bare 
and  arid  as  for  the  time  it  was),  was  the  condition  of  happi- 
ness for  her,  and  yet  that  the  obstacles  were  terrible,  cruel. 
It  must  not  be  thought  that  the  revolution  which  was  taking 
place  in  her  was  unaccompanied  with  suffering.  She 
suffered  less  than  Olive  certainly,  for  her  bent  was  not,  like 
her  friend's,  in  that  direction ;  but  as  the  wheel  of  her  ex- 
perience went  round  she  had  the  sensation  of  being  ground 
very  small  indeed.  With  her  light,  bright  texture,  her 
complacent  responsiveness,  her  genial,  graceful,  ornamental 
cast,  her  desire  to  keep  on  pleasing  others  at  the  time  when 
a  force  she  had  never  felt  before  was  pushing  her  to  please 
herself,  poor  Verena  lived  in  these  days  in  a  state  of  moral 
tension — with  a  sense  of  being  strained  and  aching — which 
she  didn't  betray  more  only  because  it  was  absolutely  not 
in  her  power  to  look  desperate.  An  immense  pity  for  Olive 
sat  in  her  heart,  and  she  asked  herself  how  far  it  was 
necessary  to  go  in  the  path  of  self-sacrifice.  Nothing  was 
wanting  to  make  the  wrong  she  should  do  her  complete ; 
she  had  deceived  her  up  to  the  very  last;  only  three  months 
earlier  she  had  reasserted  her  vows,  given  her  word,  with 
every  show  of  fidelity  and  enthusiasm.  There  were  hours 
when  it  seemed  to  Verena  that  she  must  really  push  her 
inquiry  no  further,  but  content  herself  with  the  conclusion 
that  she  loved  as  deeply  as  a  woman  could  love  and  that 
it  didn't  make  any  difference.  She  felt  Olive's  grasp  too 
clinching,  too  terrible.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  should 
never  dare,  that  she  might  as  well  give  up  early  as  late ; 
that  the  scene,  at  the  end,  would  be  something  she  couldn't 
face  ;  that  she  had  no  right  to  blast  the  poor  creature's 
whole  future.  She  had  a  vision  of  those  dreadful  years ; 
she  knew  that  Olive  would  never  get  over  the  disappoint- 
ment. It  would  touch  her  in  the  point  where  she  felt 
everything  most  keenly;  she  would  be  incurably  lonely 
and  eternally  humiliated.  It  was  a  very  peculiar  thing, 
their  friendship ;  it  had  elements  which  made  it  probably 
as  complete  as  any  (between  women)  that  had  ever  existed. 
Of  course  it  had  been  more  on  Olive's  side  than  on  hers, 
she  had  always  known  that ;  but  that,  again,  didn't  make 


xxxviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  3^7 

any  difference.  It  was  of  no  use  for  her  to  tell  herself  that 
Olive  had  begun  it  entirely  and  she  had  only  responded 
out  of  a  kind  of  charmed  politeness,  at  first,  to  a  tremendous 
appeal.  She  had  lent  herself,  given  herself,  utterly,  and  she 
ought  to  have  known  better  if  she  didn't  mean  to  abide  by 
it.  At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  felt  that  her  inquiry  was 
complete,  but  that  after  all  nothing  was  gained  except  an 
immense  interest  in  Basil  Ransom's  views  and  the  prospect 
of  an  eternal  heartache.  He  had  told  her  he  wanted  her 
to  know  him,  and  now  she  knew  him  pretty  thoroughly. 
She  knew  him  and  she  adored  him,  but  it  didn't  make  any 
difference.  To  give  him  up  or  to  give  Olive  up — this 
effort  would  be  the  greater  of  the  two. 

If  Basil  Ransom  had  the  advantage,  as  far  back  as  that 
day  in  New  York,  of  having  struck  a  note  which  was  to 
reverberate,  it  may  easily  be  imagined  that  he  did  not  fail 
to  follow  it  up.  If  he  had  projected  a  new  light  into 
Verena's  mind,  and  made  the  idea  of  giving  herself  to  a  man 
more  agreeable  to  her  than  that  of  giving  herself  to  a  move- 
ment, he  found  means  to  deepen  this  illumination,  to  drag  her 
former  standard  in  the  dust.  He  was  in  a  very  odd  situa- 
tion indeed,  carrying  on  his  siege  with  his  hands  tied.  As 
he  had  to  do  everything  in  an  hour  a  day,  he  perceived 
that  he  must  confine  himself  to  the  essential.  The  essential 
was  to  show  her  how  much  he  loved  her,  and  then  to  press,  to 
press,  always  to  press.  His  hovering  about  Miss  Chancellor's 
habitation  without  going  in  was  a  strange  regimen  to  be 
subjected  to,  and  he  was  sorry  not  to  see  more  of  Miss 
Birdseye,  besides  often  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself 
in  the  mornings  and  evenings.  Fortunately  he  had  brought 
plenty  of  books  (volumes  of  rusty  aspect,  picked  up  at  New 
York  bookstalls),  and  in  such  an  affair  as  this  he  could  take 
the  less  when  the  more  was  forbidden  him.  For  the 
mornings,  sometimes,  he  had  the  resource  of  Doctor  Prance, 
with  whom  he  made  a  great  many  excursions  on  the  water. 
She  was  devoted  to  boating  and  an  ardent  fisherwoman,  and 
they  used  to  pull  out  into  the  bay  together,  cast  their  lines, 
and  talk  a  prodigious  amount  of  heresy.  She  met  him,  as 
Verena  met  him,  '  in  the  environs,'  but  in  a  different  spirit. 
He  was  immensely  amused  at  her  attitude,  and  saw  that 


388  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

nothing  in  the  world  could,  as  he  expressed  it,  make  her 
wink.  She  would  never  blench  nor  show  surprise  ;  she  had 
an  air  of  taking  everything  abnormal  for  granted ;  betrayed 
no  consciousness  of  the  oddity  of  Ransom's  situation ;  said 
nothing  to  indicate  she  had  noticed  that  Miss  Chancellor 
was  in  a  frenzy  or  that  Verena  had  a  daily  appointment. 
You  might  have  supposed  from  her  manner  that  it  was  as 
natural  for  Ransom  to  sit  on  a  fence  half  a  mile  off  as  in 
one  of  the  red  rocking-chairs,  of  the  so-called  '  Shaker ' 
species,  which  adorned  Miss  Chancellor's  back  verandah. 
The  only  thing  our  young  man  didn't  like  about  Doctor 
Prance  was  the  impression  she  gave  him  (out  of  the  crevices 
of  her  reticence  he  hardly  knew  how  it  leaked),  that  she 
thought  Verena  rather  slim.  She  took  an  ironical  view  of 
almost  any  kind  of  courtship,  and  he  could  see  she  didn't 
wonder  women  were  such  featherheads,  so  long  as,  whatever 
brittle  follies  they  cultivated,  they  could  get  men  to  come 
and  sit  on  fences  for  them.  Doctor  Prance  told  him  Miss 
Birdseye  noticed  nothing ;  she  had  sunk,  within  a  few  days, 
into  a  kind  of  transfigured  torpor ;  she  didn't  seem  to  know 
whether  Mr.  Ransom  were  anywhere  round  or  not.  She 
guessed  she  thought  he  had  just  come  down  for  a  day  and 
gone  off  again ;  she  probably  supposed  he  just  wanted  to 
get  toned  up  a  little  by  Miss  Tarrant.  Sometimes,  out  in 
the  boat,  when  she  looked  at  him  in  vague,  sociable  silence, 
while  she  waited  for  a  bite  (she  delighted  in  a  bite),  she  had 
an  expression  of  diabolical  shrewdness.  When  Ransom  was 
not  scorching  there  beside  her  (he  didn't  mind  the  sun  of 
Massachusetts),  he  lounged  about  in  the  pastoral  land  which 
hung  (at  a  very  moderate  elevation),  above  the  shore.  He 
always  had  a  book  in  his  pocket,  and  he  lay  under 
whispering  trees  and  kicked  his  heels  and  made  up  his 
mind  on  what  side  he  should  take  Verena  the  next  time.  At 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  had  succeeded  (so  he  believed,  at 
least),  far  better  than  he  had  hoped,  in  this  sense,  that  the 
girl  had  now  the  air  of  making  much  more  light  of  her 
'gift.'  He  was  indeed  quite  appalled  at  the  facility  with 
which  she  threw  it  over,  gave  up  the  idea  that  it  was  useful 
and  precious.  That  had  been  what  he  wanted  her  to  do, 
and  the  fact  of  the  sacrifice  (once  she  had  fairly  looked  at 


XXXVIIT.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  389 

it),  costing  her  so  little  only  proved  his  contention,  only 
made  it  clear  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  her  happiness  to 
spend  half  her  life  ranting  (no  matter  how  prettily),  in 
public.  All  the  same  he  said  to  himself  that,  to  make  up 
for  the  loss  of  whatever  was  sweet  in  the  reputation  of  the 
thing,  he  should  have  to  be  tremendously  nice  to  her  in  all 
the  coming  years.  During  the  first  week  he  was  at  Marmion 
she  made  of  him  an  inquiry  which  touched  on  this  point. 

*  Well,  if  it's  all  a  mere  delusion,  why  should  this  facility 
have  been  given  me — why  should  I  have  been  saddled  with 
a  superfluous  talent  ?  I  don't  care  much  about  it — I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that ;  but  I  confess  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is  to  become  of  all  that  part  of  me,  if  I  retire  into 
private  life,  and  live,  as  you  say,  simply  to  be  charming  for 
you.  I  shall  be  like  a  singer  with  a  beautiful  voice  (you 
have  told  me  yourself  my  voice  is  beautiful),  who  has  ac- 
cepted some  decree  of  never  raising  a  note.  Isn't  that  a 
great  waste,  a  great  violation  of  nature  ?  Were  not  our 
talents  given  us  to  use,  and  have  we  any  right  to  smother 
them  and  deprive  our  fellow-creatures  of  such  pleasure  as 
they  may  confer  ?  In  the  arrangement  you  propose '  (that 
was  Verena's  way  of  speaking  of  the  question  of  their 
marriage),  ( I  don't  see  what  provision  is  made  for  the  poor 
faithful,  dismissed  servant.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  charm- 
ing to  you,  but  there  are  people  who  have  told  me  that 
once  I  get  on  a  platform  I  am  charming  to  all  the  world. 
There  is  no  harm  in  my  speaking  of  that,  because  you  have 
told  me  so  yourself.  Perhaps  you  intend  to  have  a  plat- 
form erected  in  our  front  parlour,  where  I  can  address  you 
every  evening,  and  put  you  to  sleep  after  your  work.  I  say 
our  front  parlour,  as  if  it  were  certain  we  should  have  two  ! 
It  doesn't  look  as  if  our  means  would  permit  that — and  we 
must  have  some  place  to  dine,  if  there  is  to  be  a  platform 
in  our  sitting-room.' 

'  My  dear  young  woman,  it  will  be  easy  to  solve  the 
difficulty :  the  dining-table  itself  shall  be  our  platform,  and 
you  shall  mount  on  top  of  that.'  This  was  Basil  Ransom's 
sportive  reply  to  his  companion's  very  natural  appeal 
for  light,  and  the  reader  will  remark  that  if  it  led  her 
to  push  her  investigation  no  further,  she  was  very  easily 


390  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

satisfied.  There  was  more  reason,  however,  as  well  as  more 
appreciation  of  a  very  considerable  mystery,  in  what  he  went 
on  to  say.  '  Charming  to  me,  charming  to  all  the  world  ? 
What  will  become  of  your  charm  ? — is  that  what  you  want 
to  know  ?  It  will  be  about  five  thousand  times  greater  than 
it  is  now ;  that's  what  will  become  of  it.  We  shall  find 
plenty  of  room  for  your  facility ;  it  will  lubricate  our  whole 
existence.  Believe  me,  Miss  Tarrant,  these  things  will  take 
care  of  themselves.  You  won't  sing  in  the  Music  Hall,  but 
you  will  sing  to  me ;  you  will  sing  to  every  one  who  knows 
you  and  approaches  you.  Your  gift  is  indestructible  j  don't 
talk  as  if  I  either  wanted  to  wipe  it  out  or  should  be  able 
to  make  it  a  particle  less  divine.  I  want  to  give  it  another 
direction,  certainly ;  but  I  don't  want  to  stop  your  activity. 
Your  gift  is  the  gift  of  expression,  and  there  is  nothing  I 
can  do  for  you  that  will  make  you  less  expressive.  It  won't 
gush  out  at  a  fixed  hour  and  on  a  fixed  day,  but  it  will  irri- 
gate, it  will  fertilise,  it  will  brilliantly  adorn  your  conversa- 
tion. Think  how  delightful  it  will  be  when  your  influence 
becomes  really  social.  Your  facility,  as  you  call  it,  will 
simply  make  you,  in  conversation,  the  most  charming  woman 
in  America.' 

It  is  to  be  feared,  indeed,  that  Verena  was  easily  satisfied 
(convinced,  I  mean,  not  that  she  ought  to  succumb  to  him, 
but  that  there  were  lovely,  neglected,  almost  unsuspected 
truths  on  his  side) ;  and  there  is  further  evidence  on  the 
same  head  in  the  fact  that  after  the  first  once  or  twice  she 
found  nothing  to  say  to  him  (much  as  she  was  always  saying 
to  herself),  about  the  cruel  effect  her  apostasy  would  have 
upon  Olive.  She  forbore  to  plead  that  reason  after  she 
had  seen  how  angry  it  made  him,  and  with  how  almost 
savage  a  contempt  he  denounced  so  flimsy  a  pretext.  He 
wanted  to  know  since  when  it  was  more  becoming  to  take 
up  with  a  morbid  old  maid  than  with  an  honourable  young 
man ;  and  when  Verena  pronounced  the  sacred  name  of 
friendship  he  inquired  what  fanatical  sophistry  excluded  him 
from  a  similar  privilege.  She  had  told  him,  in  a  moment 
of  expansion  (Verena  believed  she  was  immensely  on  her 
guard,  but  her  guard  was  very  apt  to  be  lowered),  that  his 
visits  to  Marmion  cast  in  Olive's  view  a  remarkable  light 


xxxviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  391 

upon  his  chivalry ;  she  chose  to  regard  his  resolute  pursuit 
of  Verena  as  a  covert  persecution  of  herself.  Verena 
repented,  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken,  of  having  given 
further  currency  to  this  taunt ;  but  she  perceived  the  next 
moment  no  harm  was  done,  Basil  Ransom  taking  in  per- 
fectly good  part  Miss  Chancellor's  reflections  on  his  delicacy, 
and  making  them  the  subject  of  much  free  laughter.  She 
could  not  know,  for  in  the  midst  of  his  hilarity  the  young 
man  did  not  compose  himself  to  tell  her,  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  on  this  question  before  he  left  New  York — as 
long  ago  as  when  he  wrote  her  the  note  (subsequent  to  her 
departure  from  that  city),  to  which  allusion  has  already 
been  made,  and  which  was  simply  the  fellow  of  the  letter 
addressed  to  her  after  his  visit  to  Cambridge :  a  friendly, 
respectful,  yet  rather  pregnant  sign  that,  decidedly,  on 
second  thoughts,  separation  didn't  imply  for  him  the 
intention  of  silence.  We  know  a  little  about  his  second 
thoughts,  as  much  as  is  essential,  and  especially  how  the 
occasion  of  their  springing  up  had  been  the  windfall  of  an 
editor's  encouragement.  The  importance  of  that  encour- 
agement, to  Basil's  imagination,  was  doubtless  much 
augmented  by  his  desire  for  an  excuse  to  take  up  again  a 
line  of  behaviour  which  he  had  forsworn  (small  as  had,  as 
yet,  been  his  opportunity  to  indulge  in  it),  very  much  less  than 
he  supposed;  still,  it  worked  an  appreciable  revolution  in 
his  view  of  his  case,  and  made  him  ask  himself  what 
amount  of  consideration  he  should  (from  the  most  refined 
Southern  point  of  view),  owe  Miss  Chancellor  in  the  event 
of  his  deciding  to  go  after  Verena  Tarrant  in  earnest.  He 
was  not  slow  to  decide  that  he  owed  her  none.  Chivalry 
had  to  do  with  one's  relations  with  people  one  hated,  not 
with  those  one  loved.  He  didn't  hate  poor  Miss  Olive, 
though  she  might  make  him  yet ;  and  even  if  he  did,  any 
chivalry  was  all  moonshine  which  should  require  him  to 
give  up  the  girl  he  adored  in  order  that  his  third  cousin 
should  see  he  could  be  gallant.  Chivalry  was  forbearance 
and  generosity  with  regard  to  the  weak;  and  there  was 
nothing  weak  about  Miss  Olive,  she  was  a  fighting  woman, 
and  she  would  fight  him  to  the  death,  giving  him  not  an 
inch  of  odds.  He  felt  that  she  was  fighting  there  all  day 


392  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvin. 

long,  in  her  cottage-fortress ;  her  resistance  was  in  the  air 
he  breathed,  and  Verena  came  out  to  him  sometimes  quite 
limp  and  pale  from  the  tussle. 

It  was  in  the  same  jocose  spirit  with  which  he  regarded 
Olive's  view  of  the  sort  of  standard  a  Mississippian  should 
live  up  to  that  he  talked  to  Verena  about  the  lecture  she 
was  preparing  for  her  great  exhibition  at  the  Music  Hall. 
He  learned  from  her  that  she  was  to  take  the  field  in  the 
manner  of  Mrs.  Farrinder,  for  a  winter  campaign,  carrying 
with  her  a  tremendous  big  gun.  Her  engagements  were  all 
made,  her  route  was  marked  out;  she  expected  to  repeat 
her  lecture  in  about  fifty  different  places.  It  was  to  be 
called  <A  Woman's  Reason,'  and  both  Olive  and  Miss 
Birdseye  thought  it,  so  far  as  they  could  tell  in  advance, 
her  most  promising  effort.  She  wasn't  going  to  trust  to 
inspiration  this  time ;  she  didn't  want  to  meet  a  big  Boston 
audience  without  knowing  where  she  was.  Inspiration, 
moreover,  seemed  rather  to  have  faded  away;  in  conse- 
quence of  Olive's  influence  she  had  read  and  studied  so  much 
that  it  seemed  now  as  if  everything  must  take  form  before- 
hand. Olive  was  a  splendid  critic,  whether  he  liked  her 
or  not,  and  she  had  made  her  go  over  every  word  of  her 
lecture  twenty  times.  There  wasn't  an  intonation  she 
hadn't  made  her  practise;  it  was  very  different  from  the 
old  system,  when  her  father  had  worked  her  up.  If  Basil 
considered  women  superficial,  it  was  a  pity  he  couldn't  see 
what  Olive's  standard  of  preparation  was,  or  be  present 
at  their  rehearsals,  in  the  evening,  in  their  little  parlour. 
Ransom's  state  of  mind  in  regard  to  the  affair  at  the 
Music  Hall  was  simply  this — that  he  was  determined  to 
circumvent  it  if  he  could.  He  covered  it  with  ridicule, 
in  talking  of  it  to  Verena,  and  the  shafts  he  levelled  at  it 
went  so  far  that  he  could  see  she  thought  he  exaggerated 
his  dislike  to  it.  In  point  of  fact  he  could  not  have 
overstated  that ;  so  odious  did  the  idea  seem  to  him  that 
she  was  soon  to  be  launched  in  a  more  infatuated  career. 
He  vowed  to  himself  that  she  should  never  take  that  fresh 
start  which  would  commit  her  irretrievably  if  she  should 
succeed  (and  she  would  succeed — he  had  not  the  slightest 
doubt  of  her  power  to  produce  a  sensation  in  the  Music 


xxxviii.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  393 

Hall),  to  the  acclamations  of  the  newspapers.  He  didn't 
care  for  her  engagements,  her  campaigns,  or  all  the  ex- 
pectancy of  her  friends ;  to  '  squelch '  all  that,  at  a  stroke, 
was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart.  It  would  represent  to 
him  his  own  success,  it  would  symbolise  his  victory.  It 
became  a  fixed  idea  with  him,  and  he  warned  her  again 
and  again.  When  she  laughed  and  said  she  didn't  see 
how  he  could  stop  her  unless  he  kidnapped  her,  he  really 
pitied  her  for  not  perceiving,  beneath  his  ominous  pleasant- 
ries, the  firmness  of  his  resolution.  He  felt  almost  capable 
of  kidnapping  her.  It  was  palpably  in  the  air  that  she 
would  become  'widely  popular,'  and  that  idea  simply 
sickened  him.  He  felt  as  differently  as  possible  about  it 
from  Mr.  Matthias  Pardon. 

One  afternoon,  as  he  returned  with  Verena  from  a 
walk  which  had  been  accomplished  completely  within  the 
prescribed  conditions,  he  saw,  from  a  distance,  Doctor 
Prance,  who  had  emerged  bareheaded  from  the  cottage, 
and,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  red,  declining  sun,  was 
looking  up  and  down  the  road.  It  was  part  of  the  regula- 
tion that  Ransom  should  separate  from  Verena  before 
reaching  the  house,  and  they  had  just  paused  to  exchange 
their  last  words  (which  every  day  promoted  the  situation 
more  than  any  others),  when  Doctor  Prance  began  to 
beckon  to  them  with  much  animation.  They  hurried 
forward,  Verena  pressing  her  hand  to  her  heart,  for  she 
had  instantly  guessed  that  something  terrible  had  happened 
to  Olive — she  had  given  out,  fainted  away,  perhaps  fallen 
dead,  with  the  cruelty  of  the  strain.  Doctor  Prance 
watched  them  come,  with  a  curious  look  in  her  face ;  it 
was  not  a  smile,  but  a  kind  of  exaggerated  intimation  that 
she  noticed  nothing.  In  an  instant  she  had  told  them 
what  was  the  matter.  Miss  Birdseye  had  had  a  sudden 
weakness ;  she  had  remarked  abruptly  that  she  was  dying, 
and  her  pulse,  sure  enough,  had  fallen  to  nothing.  She 
was  down  on  the  piazza  with  Miss  Chancellor  and  herself, 
and  they  had  tried  to  get  her  up  to  bed.  But  she  wouldn't 
let  them  move  her ;  she  was  passing  away,  and  she  wanted 
to  pass  away  just  there,  in  such  a  pleasant  place,  in  her 
customary  chair,  looking  at  the  sunset  She  asked  for 


394  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

Miss  Tarrant,  and  Miss  Chancellor  told  her  she  was  out — 
walking  with  Mr.  Ransom.  Then  she  wanted  to  know  if 
Mr.  Ransom  was  still  there — she  supposed  he  had  gone. 
(Basil  knew,  by  Verena,  apart  from  this,  that  his  name 
had  not  been  mentioned  to  the  old  lady  since  the  morning 
he  saw  her.)  She  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him — she  had 
something  to  say  to  him;  and  Miss  Chancellor  told  her 
that  he  would  be  back  soon,  with  Verena,  and  that  they 
would  bring  him  in.  Miss  Birdseye  said  she  hoped  they 
wouldn't  be  long,  because  she  was  sinking;  and  Doctor 
Prance  now  added,  like  a  person  who  knew  what  she  was 
talking  about,  that  it  was,  in  fact,  the  end.  She  had 
darted  out  two  or  three  times  to  look  for  them,  and  they 
must  step  right  in.  Verena  had  scarcely  given  her  time 
to  tell  her  story ;  she  had  already  rushed  into  the  house. 
Ransom  followed  with  Doctor  Prance,  conscious  that  for 
him  the  occasion  was  doubly  solemn ;  inasmuch  as  if  he 
was  to  see  poor  Miss  Birdseye  yield  up  her  philanthropic 
soul,  he  was  on  the  other  hand  doubtless  to  receive  from 
Miss  Chancellor  a  reminder  that  she  had  no  intention  of 
quitting  the  game. 

By  the  time  he  had  made  this  reflection  he  stood  in 
the  presence  of  his  kinswoman  and  her  venerable  guest, 
who  was  sitting  just  as  he  had  seen  her  before,  muffled 
and  bonneted,  on  the  back  piazza  of  the  cottage.  Olive 
Chancellor  was  on  one  side  of  her,  holding  one  of  her 
hands,  and  on  the  other  was  Verena,  who  had  dropped 
on  her  knees,  close  to  her,  bending  over  those  of  the  old 
lady.  'Did  you  ask  for  me — did  you  want  me?'  the 
girl  said,  tenderly.  *  I  will  never  leave  you  again.' 

'Oh,  I  won't  keep  you  long.  I  only  wanted  to  see 
you  once  more.'  Miss  Birdseye's  voice  was  very  low,  like 
that  of  a  person  breathing  with  difficulty;  but  it  had  no 
painful  nor  querulous  note — it  expressed  only  the  cheerful 
weariness  which  had  marked  all  this  last  period  of  her  life, 
and  which  seemed  to  make  it  now  as  blissful  as  it  was 
suitable  that  she  should  pass  away.  Her  head  was  thrown 
back  against  the  top  of  the  chair,  the  ribbon  which  con- 
fined her  ancient  hat  hung  loose,  and  the  late  afternoon- 
light  covered  her  octogenarian  face  and  gave  it  a  kind  of 


xxxvin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  395 

fairness,  a  double  placidity.  There  was,  to  Ransom,  some- 
thing almost  august  in  the  trustful  renunciation  of  her 
countenance ;  something  in  it  seemed  to  say  that  she  had 
been  ready  long  before,  but  as  the  time  was  not  ripe  she 
had  waited,  with  her  usual  faith  that  all  was  for  the  best ; 
only,  at  present,  since  the  right  conditions  met,  she 
couldn't  help  feeling  that  it  was  quite  a  luxury,  the 
greatest  she  had  ever  tasted.  Ransom  knew  why  it  was 
that  Verena  had  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  her 
patient  old  friend;  she  had  spoken  to  him,  often,  during 
the  last  three  weeks,  of  the  stories  Miss  Birdseye  had  told 
her  of  the  great  work  of  her  life,  her  mission,  repeated  year 
after  year,  among  the  Southern  blacks.  She  had  gone 
among  them  with  every  precaution,  to  teach  them  to  read 
and  write ;  she  had  carried  them  Bibles  and  told  them  of 
the  friends  they  had  in  the  North  who  prayed  for  their 
deliverance.  Ransom  knew  that  Verena  didn't  reproduce 
these  legends  with  a  view  to  making  him  ashamed  of  his 
Southern  origin,  his  connection  with  people  who,  in  a  past 
not  yet  remote,  had  made  that  kind  of  apostleship  necessary; 
he  knew  this  because  she  had  heard  what  he  thought  of  all 
that  chapter  himself;  he  had  given  her  a  kind  of  historical 
summary  of  the  slavery-question  which  left  her  no  room  to 
say  that  he  was  more  tender  to  that  particular  example  of 
human  imbecility  than  he  was  to  any  other.  But  she  had 
told  him  that  this  was  what  she  would  have  liked  to  do — to 
wander,  alone,  with  her  life  in  her  hand,  on  an  errand  of 
mercy,  through  a  country  in  which  society  was  arrayed 
against  her ;  she  would  have  liked  it  much  better  than 
simply  talking  about  the  right  from  the  gas-lighted  vantage 
of  the  New  England  platform.  Ransom  had  replied  simply 
'Balderdash!'  it  being  his  theory,  as  we  have  perceived, 
that  he  knew  much  more  about  Verena's  native  bent  than 
the  young  lady  herself.  This  did  not,  however,  as  he  was 
perfectly  aware,  prevent  her  feeling  that  she  had  come  too 
late  for  the  heroic  age  of  New  England  life,  and  regarding 
Miss  Birdseye  as  a  battered,  immemorial  monument  of  it. 
Ransom  could  share  such  an  admiration  as  that,  especially 
at  this  moment ;  he  had  said  to  Verena,  more  than  once, 
that  he  wished  he  might  have  met  the  old  lady  in  Carolina 


396  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

or  Georgia  before  the  war — shown  her  round  among  the 
negroes  and  talked  over  New  England  ideas  with  her; 
there  were  a  good  many  he  didn't  care  much  about  now, 
but  at  that  time  they  would  have  been  tremendously 
refreshing.  Miss  Birdseye  had  given  herself  away  so 
lavishly  all  her  life  that  it  was  rather  odd  there  was  any- 
thing left  of  her  for  the  supreme  surrender.  When  he 
looked  at  Olive  he  saw  that  she  meant  to  ignore  him ;  and 
during  the  few  minutes  he  remained  on  the  spot  his  kins- 
woman never  met  his  eye.  She  turned  away,  indeed,  as 
soon  as  Doctor  Prance  said,  leaning  over  Miss  Birdseye,  '  I 
have  brought  Mr.  Ransom  to  you.  Don't  you  remember 
you  asked  for  him  ? ' 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again/  Ransom  remarked. 
'  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  me.'  At  the  sound 
of  his  voice  Olive  rose  and  left  her  place ;  she  sank  into  a 
chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  piazza.,  turning  round  to  rest 
her  arms  on  the  back  and  bury  her  head  in  them. 

Miss  Birdseye  looked  at  the  young  man  still  more 
dimly  than  she  had  ever  done  before.  '  I  thought  you  were 
gone.  You  never  came  back.' 

'  He  spends  all  his  time  in  long  walks ;  he  enjoys  the 
country  so  much,'  Verena  said. 

'  Well,  it's  very  beautiful,  what  I  see  from  here.  I 
haven't  been  strong  enough  to  move  round  since  the  first 
days.  But  I  am  going  to  move  now.'  She  smiled  when 
Ransom  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  help  her,  and  added  :  '  Oh, 
I  don't  mean  I  am  going  to  move  out  of  my  chair.' 

'  Mr.  Ransom  has  been  out  in  a  boat  with  me  several 
times.  I  have  been  showing  him  how  to  cast  a  line,'  said 
Doctor  Prance,  who  appeared  to  deprecate  a  sentimental 
tendency. 

*  Oh,  well,  then,  you  have  been  one  of  our  party ;  there 
seems  to  be  every  reason  why  you  should  feel  that  you 
belong  to  us.'  Miss  Birdseye  looked  at  the  visitor  with  a 
sort  of  misty  earnestness,  as  if  she  wished  to  communicate 
with  him  further ;  then  her  glance  turned  slightly  aside ; 
she  tried  to  see  what  had  become  of  Olive.  She  perceived 
that  Miss  Chancellor  had  withdrawn  herself,  and,  closing 
her  eyes,  she  mused,  ineffectually,  on  the  mystery  she  had 


xxxvni.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  397 

not  grasped,  the  peculiarity  of  Basil  Ransom's  relations 
with  her  hostess.  She  was  visibly  too  weak  to  concern 
herself  with  it  very  actively ;  she  only  felt,  now  that  she 
seemed  really  to  be  going,  a  desire  to  reconcile  and 
harmonise.  But  she  presently  exhaled  a  low,  soft  sigh — 
a  kind  of  confession  that  it  was  too  mixed,  that  she  gave  it 
up.  Ransom  had  feared  for  a  moment  that  she  was  about 
to  indulge  in  some  appeal  to  Olive,  some  attempt  to  make 
him  join  hands  with  that  young  lady,  as  a  supreme  satisfac- 
tion to  herself.  But  he  saw  that  her  strength  failed  her,  and 
that,  besides,  things  were  getting  less  clear  to  her ;  to  his 
considerable  relief,  inasmuch  as,  though  he  would  not  have 
objected  to  joining  hands,  the  expression  of  Miss  Chan- 
cellor's figure  and  her  averted  face,  with  their  desperate 
collapse,  showed  him  well  enough  how  she  would  have  met 
such  a  proposal.  What  Miss  Birdseye  clung  to,  with  be- 
nignant perversity,  was  the  idea  that,  in  spite  of  his 
exclusion  from  the  house,  which  was  perhaps  only  the 
result  of  a  certain  high-strung  jealousy  on  Olive's  part  of 
her  friend's  other  personal  ties,  Verena  had  drawn  him  in, 
had  made  him  sympathise  with  the  great  reform  and  desire 
to  work  for  it.  Ransom  saw  no  reason  why  such  an  illu- 
sion should  be  dear  to  Miss  Birdseye  j  his  contact  with  her 
in  the  past  had  been  so  momentary  that ,  he  could  not 
account  for  her  taking  an  interest  in  his  views,  in  his  throw- 
ing his  weight  into  the  right  scale.  It  was  part  of  the 
general  desire  for  justice  that  fermented  within  her,  the 
passion  for  progress ;  and  it  was  also  in  some  degree  her 
interest  in  Verena — a  suspicion,  innocent  and  idyllic,  as 
any  such  suspicion  on  Miss  Birdseye's  part  must  be,  that 
there  was  something  between  them,  that  the  closest  of  all 
unions  (as  Miss  Birdseye  at  least  supposed  it  was),  was 
preparing  itself.  Then  his  being  a  Southerner  gave  a  point 
to  the  whole  thing ;  to  bring  round  a  Southerner  would  be 
a  real  encouragement  for  one  who  had  seen,  even  at  a  time 
when  she  was  already  an  old  woman,  what  was  the  tone  of 
opinion  in  the  cotton  States.  Ransom  had  no  wish  to 
discourage  her,  and  he  bore  well  in  mind  the  caution 
Doctor  Prance  had  given  him  about  destroying  her  last 
theory.  He  only  bowed  his  head  very  humbly,  not  know- 


398  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

ing  what  he  had  done  to  earn  the  honour  of  being  the 
subject  of  it.  His  eyes  met  Verena's  as  she  looked  up  at 
him  from  her  place  at  Miss  Birdseye's  feet,  and  he  saw  she 
was  following  his  thought,  throwing  herself  into  it,  and 
trying  to  communicate  to  him  a  wish.  The  wish  touched 
him  immensely ;  she  was  dreadfully  afraid  he  would  betray 
her  to  Miss  Birdseye — let  her  know  how  she  had  cooled 
off.  Verena  was  ashamed  of  that  now,  and  trembled  at  the 
danger  of  exposure ;  her  eyes  adjured  him  to  be  careful  of 
what  he  said.  Her  tremor  made  him  glow  a  little  in  return, 
for  it  seemed  to  him  the  fullest  confession  of  his  influence 
she  had  yet  made. 

'  We  have  been  a  very  happy  little  party,'  she  said  to  the 
old  lady.  '  It  is  delightful  that  you  should  have  been  able 
to  be  with  us  all  these  weeks.' 

'  It  has  been  a  great  rest.  I  am  very  tired.  I  can't 
speak  much.  It  has  been  a  lovely  time.  I  have  done  so 
much — so  many  things.' 

'I  guess  I  wouldn't  talk  much,  Miss  Birdseye/  said 
Doctor  Prance,  who  had  now  knelt  down  on  the  other  side 
of  her.  '  We  know  how  much  you  have  done.  Don't  you 
suppose  every  one  knows  your  life  ?' 

*  It  isn't  much — only  I  tried  to  take  hold.    When  I  look 
back  from  here,  from  where  we've  sat,  I  can  measure  the 
progress.     That's  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  and  Mr. 
Ransom — because  I'm  going  fast.     Hold  on  to  me,  that's 
right ;  but  you  can't  keep  me.     I  don't  want  to  stay  now ; 
I  presume  I  shall  join  some  of  the  others  that  we  lost  long 
ago.     Their  faces  come  back  to  me  now,  quite  fresh.     It 
seems  as  if  they  might  be  waiting ;  as  if  they  were  all  there ; 
as  if  they  wanted  to  hear.     You  mustn't  think  there's  no 
progress  because  you  don't  see  it  all  right  off;  that's  what 
I  wanted  to  say.     It  isn't  till  you  have  gone  a  long  way 
that  you  can  feel  what's  been  done.     That's  what  I  see 
when  I  look  back  from  here ;  I  see  that  the  community 
wasn't  half  waked  up  when  I  was  young.' 

*  It  is  you  that  have  waked  it  up  moire  than  any  one  else, 
and  it's  for  that  we  honour  you,  Miss  Birdseye  !'  Verena 
cried,  with  a  sudden  violence  of  emotion.     ( If  you  were  to 
live  for  a  thousand  years,  you  would  think  only  of  others — 


xxxvin.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  399 

you  would  think  only  of  helping  on  humanity.  You  are 
our  heroine,  you  are  our  saint,  and  there  has  never  been 
any  one  like  you  ! '  Verena  had  no  glance  for  Ransom  now, 
and  there  was  neither  deprecation  nor  entreaty  in  her  face. 
A  wave  of  contrition,  of  shame,  had  swept  over  her — a 
quick  desire  to  atone  for  her  secret  swerving  by  a  renewed 
recognition  of  the  nobleness  of  such  a  life  as  Miss 
Birdseye's. 

'  Oh,  I  haven't  effected  very  much ;  I  have  only  cared 
and  hoped.  You  will  do  more  than  I  have  ever  done — 
you  and  Olive  Chancellor,  because  you  are  young  and 
bright,  brighter  than  I  ever  was;  and  besides,  everything 
has  got  started.' 

'  Well,  you've  got  started,  Miss  Birdseye,'  Doctor  Prance 
remarked,  with  raised  eyebrows,  protesting  drily  but  kindly, 
and  putting  forward,  with  an  air  as  if,  after  all,  it  didn't 
matter  much,  an  authority  that  had  been  superseded.  The 
manner  in  which  this  competent  little  woman  indulged  her 
patient  showed  sufficiently  that  the  good  lady  was  sinking  fast. 

'  We  will  think  of  you  always,  and  your  name  will  be 
sacred  to  us,  and  that  will  teach  us  singleness  and  devotion,' 
Verena  went  on,  in  the  same  tone,  still  not  meeting  Ran- 
som's eyes  again,  and  speaking  as  if  she  were  trying  now  to 
stop  herself,  to  tie  herself  by  a  vow. 

1  Well,  it's  the  thing  you  and  Olive  have  given  your  lives 
to  that  has  absorbed  me  most,  of  late  years.  I  did  want  to 
see  justice  done — to  us.  I  haven't  seen  it,  but  you  will. 
And  Olive  will.  Where  is  she — why  isn't  she  near  me,  to 
bid  me  farewell  ?  And  Mr.  Ransom  will — and  he  will  be 
proud  to  have  helped.' 

*  Oh,  mercy,  mercy  !'  cried  Verena,  burying  her  head  in 
Miss  Birdseye's  lap. 

'  You  are  not  mistaken  if  you  think  I  desire  above  all 
things  that  your  weakness,  your  generosity,  should  be  pro- 
tected,' Ransom  said,  rather  ambiguously,  but  with  pointed 
respectfulness.  '  I  shall  remember  you  as  an  example  of 
what  women  are  capable  of,'  he  added ;  and  he  had  no 
subsequent  compunctions  for  the  speech,  for  he  thought 
poor  Miss  Birdseye,  for  all  her  absence  of  profile,  essentially 
feminine. 


400  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxvm. 

A  kind  of  frantic  moan  from  Olive  Chancellor  responded 
to  these  words,  which  .had  evidently  struck  her  as  an  insolent 
sarcasm ;  and  at  the  same  moment  Doctor  Prance  sent 
Ransom  a  glance  which  was  an  adjuration  to  depart. 

'  Good-bye,  Olive  Chancellor,'  Miss  Birdseye  murmured. 
'  I  don't  want  to  stay,  though  I  should  like  to  see  what  you 
will  see.' 

*  I  shall'  see  nothing  but  shame  and  ruin ! '  Olive 
shrieked,  rushing  across  to  her  old  friend,  while  Ransom 
discreetly  quitted  the  scene. 


XXXIX. 

HE  met  Doctor  Prance  in  the  village  the  next  morning,  and 
as  soon  as  he  looked  at  her  he  saw  that  the  event  which 
had  been  impending  at  Miss  Chancellor's  had  taken  place. 
It  was  not  that  her  aspect  was  funereal ;  but  it  contained, 
somehow,  an  announcement  that  she  had,  for  the  present, 
no  more  thought  to  give  to  casting  a  line.  Miss  Birdseye 
had  quietly  passed  away,  in  the  evening,  an  hour  or  two 
after  Ransom's  visit.  They  had  wheeled  her  chair  into  the 
house ;  there  had  been  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  complete 
extinction.  Miss  Chancellor  and  Miss  Tarrant  had  sat  by 
her  there,  without  moving,  each  of  her  hands  in  theirs,  and 
she  had  just  melted  away,  towards  eight  o'clock.  It  was  a 
lovely  death ;  Doctor  Prance  intimated  that  she  had  never 
seen  any  that  she  thought  more  seasonable.  She  added 
that  she  was  a  good  woman — one  of  the  old  sort ;  and  that 
was  the  only  funeral  oration  that  Basil  Ransom  was  destined 
to  hear  pronounced  upon  Miss  Birdseye.  The  impression 
of  the  simplicity  and  humility  of  her  end  remained  with 
him,  and  he  reflected  more  than  once,  during  the  days  that 
followed,  that  the  absence  of  pomp  and  circumstance 
which  had  marked  her  career  marked  also  the  consecration 
of  her  memory.  She  had  been  almost  celebrated,  she  had 
been  active,  earnest,  ubiquitous  beyond  any  one  else,  she 
had  given  herself  utterly  to  charities  and  creeds  and  causes ; 
and  yet  the  only  persons,  apparently,  to  whom  her  death 
made  a  real  difference  were  three  young  women  in  a  small 
1  frame  -house'  on  Cape  Cod.  Ransom  learned  from 
Doctor  Prance  that  her  mortal  remains  were  to  be  com- 
mitted to  their  rest  in  the  little  cemetery  at  Marmion,  in 
sight  of  the  pretty  sea- view  she  loved  to  gaze  at,  among  old 
mossy  headstones  of  mariners  and  fisher- folk.  She  had 

2  D 


402  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

seen  the  place  when  she  first  came  down,  when  she  was 
able  to  drive  out  a  little,  and  she  had  said  she  thought  it 
must  be  pleasant  to  lie  there.  It  was  not  an  injunction,  a 
definite  request ;  it  had  not  occurred  to  Miss  Birdseye,  at 
the  end  of  her  days,  to  take  an  exacting  line  or  to  make,  for 
the  first  time  in  eighty  years,  a  personal  claim.  But  Olive 
Chancellor  and  Verena  had  put  their  construction  on  her 
appreciation  of  the  quietest  corner  of  the  striving,  suffering 
world  so  weary  a  pilgrim  of  philanthropy  had  ever  beheld. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Ransom  received  a  note  of 
five  lines  from  Verena,  the  purport  of  which  was  to  tell  him 
that  he  must  not  expect  to  see  her  again  for  the  present ; 
she  wished  to  be  very  quiet  and  think  things  over.  She 
added  the  recommendation  that  he  should  leave  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  three  or  four  days;  there  were  plenty  of 
strange  old  places  to  see  in  that  part  of  the  country. 
Ransom  meditated  deeply  on  this  missive,  and  perceived 
that  he  should  be  guilty  of  very  bad  taste  in  not  im- 
mediately absenting  himself.  He  knew  that  to  Olive 
Chancellor's  vision  his  conduct  already  wore  that  stain,  and 
it  was  useless,  therefore,  for  him  to  consider  how  he  could 
displease  her  either  less  or  more.  But  he  wished  to 
convey  to  Verena  the  impression  that  he  would  do  anything 
in  the  wide  world  to  gratify  her  except  give  her  up,  and  as 
he  packed  his  valise  he  had  an  idea  that  he  was  both 
behaving  beautifully  and  showing  the  finest  diplomatic 
sense.  To  go  away  proved  to  himself  how  secure  he  felt, 
what  a  conviction  he  had  that  however  she  might  turn  and 
twist  in  his  grasp  he  held  her  fast.  The  emotion  she  had 
expressed  as  he  stood  there  before  poor  Miss  Birdseye  was 
only  one  of  her  instinctive  contortions ;  he  had  taken  due 
note  of  that — said  to  himself  that  a  good  many  more  would 
probably  occur  before  she  would  be  quiet.  A  woman  that 
listens  is  lost,  the  old  proverb  says ;  and  what  had  Verena 
done  for  the  last  three  weeks  but  listen  ? — not  very  long 
each  day,  but  with  a  degree  of  attention  of  which  her  not 
withdrawing  from  Marmion  was  the  measure.  She  had  not 
told  him  that  Olive  wanted  to  whisk  her  away,  but  he  had 
not  needed  this  confidence  to  know  that  if  she  stayed  on  the 
field  it  was  because  she  preferred  to.  She  probably  had  an 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  403 

idea  she  was  fighting,  but  if  she  should  fight  no  harder  than 
she  had  fought  up  to  now  he  should  continue  to  take  the 
same  view  of  his  success.  She  meant  her  request  that  he 
should  go  away  for  a  few  days  as  something  combative ; 
but,  decidedly,  he  scarcely  felt  the  blow.  He  liked  to  think 
that  he  had  great  tact  with  women,  and  he  was  sure  Verena 
would  be  struck  with  this  quality  in  reading,  in  the  note  he 
presently  addressed  her  in  reply  to  her  own,  that  he  had 
determined  to  take  a  little  run  to  Provincetown.  As  there 
was  no  one  under  the  rather  ineffectual  roof  which  sheltered 
him  to  whose  hand  he  could  intrust  the  billet — at  the 
Marmion  hotel  one  had  to  be  one's  own  messenger — he 
walked  to  the  village  post-office  to  request  that  his  note 
should  be  put  into  Miss  Chancellor's  box.  Here  he  met 
Doctor  Prance,  for  a  second  time  that  day  j  she  had  come 
to  deposit  the  letters  by  which  Olive  notified  a  few  of  Miss 
Birdseye's  friends  of  the  time  and  place  of  her  obsequies. 
This  young  lady  was  shut  up  with  Verena,  and  Doctor 
Prance  was  transacting  all  their  business  for  them.  Ransom 
felt  that  he  made  no  admission  that  would  impugn  his 
estimate  of  the  sex  to  which  she  in  a  manner  belonged,  in 
reflecting  that  she  would  acquit  herself  of  these  delegated 
duties  with  the  greatest  rapidity  and  accuracy.  He  told 
her  he  was  going  to  absent  himself  for  a  few  days,  and 
expressed  a  friendly  hope  that  he  should  find  her  at  Marmion 
on  his  return. 

Her  keen  eye  gauged  him  a  moment,  to  see  if  he  were 
joking  j  then  she  said,  '  Well,  I  presume  you  think  I  can 
do  as  I  like.  But  I  can't.' 

'  You  mean  you  have  got  to  go  back  to  work  ? ' 

'  Well,  yes ;  my  place  is  empty  in  the  city.' 

'  So  is  every  other  place.  You  had  better  remain  till  the 
end  of  the  season.' 

1  It's  all  one  season  to  me.  I  want  to  see  my  office- 
slate.  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  so  long  for  any  one  but  her.' 

'  Well,  then,  goodbye,'  Ransom  said.  *  I  shall  always 
remember  our  little  expeditions.  And  I  wish  you  every 
professional  distinction.' 

'  That's  why  I  want  to  go  back,'  Doctor  Prance  replied, 
with  her  flat,  limited  manner.  He  kept  her  a  moment ;  he 


404  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

wanted  to  ask  her  about  Verena.  While  he  was  hesitating 
how  to  form  his  question  she  remarked,  evidently  wishing 
to  leave  him  a  little  memento  of  her  sympathy,  '  Well,  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  follow  up  your  views.' 

'My  views,  Miss  Prance?  I  am  sure  I  have  never 
mentioned  them  to  you  ! '  Then  Ransom  added,  *  How  is 
Miss  Tarrant  to-day  ?  is  she  more  calm  ? ' 

'  Oh  no,  she  isn't  calm  at  all/  Doctor  Prance  answered, 
very  definitely. 

'  Do  you  mean  she's  excited,  emotional  ? ' 

'  Well,  she  doesn't  talk,  she's  perfectly  still,  and  so  is 
Miss  Chancellor.  They're  as  still  as  two  watchers — they 
don't  speak.  But  you  can  hear  the  silence  vibrate.' 

'Vibrate?' 

'  Well,  they  are  very  nervous.' 

Ransom  was  confident,  as  I  say,  yet  the  effort  that  he 
made  to  extract  a  good  omen  from  this  characterisation  of 
the  two  ladies  at  the  cottage  was  not  altogether  successful. 
He  would  have  liked  to  ask  Doctor  Prance  whether  she 
didn't  think  he  might  count  on  Verena  in  the  end ;  but  he 
was  too  shy  for  this,  the  subject  of  his  relations  with  Miss 
Tarrant  never  yet  having  been  touched  upon  between  them ; 
and,  besides,  he  didn't  care  to  hear  himself  put  a  question 
which  was  more  or  less  an  implication  of  a  doubt  So  he 
compromised,  with  a  sort  of  oblique  and  general  inquiry 
about  Olive ;  that  might  draw  some  light.  '  What  do  you 
think  of  Miss  Chancellor — how  does  she  strike  you  ? ' 

Doctor  Prance  reflected  a  little,  with  an  apparent  con- 
sciousness that  he  meant  more  than  he  asked.  'Well, 
she's  losing  flesh,'  she  presently  replied ;  and  Ransom  turned 
away,  not  encouraged,  and  feeling  that,  no  doubt,  the  little 
doctress  had  better  go  back  to  her  office-slate. 

He  did  the  thing  handsomely,  remained  at  Provincetown 
a  week,  inhaling  the  delicious  air,  smoking  innumerable 
cigars,  and  lounging  among  the  ancient  wharves,  where  the 
grass  grew  thick  and  the  impression  of  fallen  greatness  was 
still  stronger  than  at  Marmion.  Like  his  friends  the 
Bostonians  he  was  very  nervous ;  there  were  days  when  he 
felt  that  he  must  rush  back  to  the  margin  of  that  mild 
inlet ;  the  voices  of  the  air  whispered  to  him  that  in  his 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  405 

absence  he  was  being  outwitted.  Nevertheless  he  stayed  the 
time  he  had  determined  to  stay ;  quieting  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  there  was  nothing  they  could  do  to  elude 
him  unless,  perhaps,  they  should  start  again  for  Europe, 
which  they  were  not  likely  to  do.  If  Miss  Olive  tried  to 
hide  Verena  away  in  the  United  States  he  would  undertake 
to  find  her — though  he  was  obliged  to  confess  that  a  flight 
to  Europe  would  baffle  him,  owing  to  his  want  of  cash  for 
pursuit.  Nothing,  however,  was  less  probable  than  that  they 
would  cross  the  Atlantic  on  the  eve  of  Verena's  projected 
debut  at  the  Music  Hall.  Before  he  went  back  to  Marmion 
he  wrote  to  this  young  lady,  to  announce  his  reappearance 
there  and  let  her  know  that  he  expected  she  would  come 
out  to  meet  him  the  morning  after.  This  conveyed  the 
assurance  that  he  intended  to  take  as  much  of  the  day  as 
he  could  get ;  he  had  had  enough  of  the  system  of  drag- 
ging through  all  the  hours  till  a  mere  fraction  of  time  was 
left  before  night,  and  he  couldn't  wait  so  long,  at  any  rate, 
the  day  after  his  return.  It  was  the  afternoon-train  that 
had  brought  him  back  from  Provincetown,  and  in  the 
evening  he  ascertained  that  the  Bostonians  had  not  deserted 
the  field.  There  were  lights  in  the  windows  of  the  house 
under  the  elms,  and  he  stood  where  he  had  stood  that 
evening  with  Doctor  Prance  and  listened  to  the  waves  of 
Verena's  voice,  as  she  rehearsed  her  lecture.  There  were 
no  waves  this  time,  no  sounds,  and  no  sign  of  life  but  the 
lamps;  the  place  had  apparently  not  ceased  to  be  given 
over  to  the  conscious  silence  described  by  Doctor  Prance. 
Ransom  felt  that  he  gave  an  immense  proof  of  chivalry  in 
not  calling  upon  Verena  to  grant  him  an  interview  on  the 
spot.  She  had  not  answered  his  last  note,  but  the  next 
day  she  kept  the  tryst,  at  the  hour  he  had  proposed ;  he 
saw  her  advance  along  the  road,  in  a  white  dress,  under  a 
big  parasol,  and  again  he  found  himself  liking  immensely 
the  way  she  walked.  He  was  dismayed,  however,  at  her 
face  and  what  it  portended ;  pale,  with  red  eyes,  graver 
than  she  had  ever  been  before,  she  appeared  to  have  spent 
the  period  of  his  absence  in  violent  weeping.  Yet  that  it 
was  not  for  him  she  had  been  crying  was  proved  by  the 
very  first  words  she  spoke. 


406  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

1 1  only  came  out  to  tell  you  definitely  it's  impossible  ! 
I  have  thought  over  everything,  taking  plenty  of  time — 
over  and  over;  and  that  is  my  answer,  finally,  positively. 
You  must  take  it — you  shall  have  no  other.' 

Basil  Ransom  gazed,  frowning  fearfully.  'And  why 
not,  pray  ?' 

'  Because  I  can't,  I  can't,  I  can't,  I  can't ! '  she  repeated, 
passionately,  with  her  altered,  distorted  face. 

1  Damnation  ! '  murmured  the  young  man.  He  seized 
her  hand,  drew  it  into  his  arm,  forcing  her  to  walk  with 
him  along  the  road. 

That  afternoon  Olive  Chancellor  came  out  of  her  house 
and  wandered  for  a  long  time  upon  the  shore.  She  looked 
up  and  down  the  bay,  at  the  sails  that  gleamed  on  the 
blue  water,  shifting  in  the  breeze  and  the  light ;  they  were 
a  source  of  interest  to  her  that  they  had  never  been  before. 
It  was  a  day  she  was  destined  never  to  forget ;  she  felt  it 
to  be  the  saddest,  the  most  wounding  of  her  life.  Unrest 
and  haunting  fear  had  not  possession  of  her  now,  as  they 
had  held  her  in  New  York  when  Basil  Ransom  carried  off 
Verena,  to  mark  her  for  his  own,  in  the  park.  But  an 
immeasurable  load  of  misery  seemed  to  sit  upon  her 
soul;  she  ached  with  the  bitterness  of  her  melancholy, 
she  was  dumb  and  cold  with  despair.  She  had  spent  the 
violence  of  her  terror,  the  eagerness  of  her  grief,  and  now 
she  was  too  weary  to  struggle  with  fate.  She  appeared  to 
herself  almost  to  have  accepted  it,  as  she  wandered  forth 
in  the  beautiful  afternoon  with  the  knowledge  that  the 
'  ten  minutes '  which  Verena  had  told  her  she  meant  to 
devote  to  Mr.  Ransom  that  morning  had  developed  sud- 
denly into  an  embarkation  for  the  day.  They  had  gone 
out  in  a  boat  together;  one  of  the  village-worthies,  from 
whom  small  craft  were  to  be  hired,  had,  at  Verena's 
request,  sent  his  little  son  to  Miss  Chancellor's  cottage 
with  that  information.  She  had  not  understood  whether 
they  had  taken  the  boatman  with  them.  Even  when  the 
information  came  (and  it  came  at  a  moment  of  considerable 
reassurance),  Olive's  nerves  were  not  ploughed  up  by  it  as 
they  had  been,  for  instance,  by  the  other  expedition,  in 
New  York ;  and  she  could  measure  the  distance  she  had 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  407 

traversed  since  then.  It  had  not  driven  her  away  on  the 
instant  to  pace  the  shore  in  frenzy,  to  challenge  every  boat 
that  passed,  and  beg  that  the  young  lady  who  was  sailing 
somewhere  in  the  bay  with  a  dark  gentleman  with  long 
hair,  should  be  entreated  immediately  to  return.  On  the 
contrary,  after  the  first  quiver  of  pain  inflicted  by  the  news 
she  had  been  able  to  occupy  herself,  to  look  after  her 
house,  to  write  her  morning's  letters,  to  go  into  her  ac- 
counts, which  she  had  had  some  time  on  her  mind. 
She  had  wanted  to  put  off  thinking,  for  she  knew  to  what 
hideous  recognitions  that  would  bring  her  round  again. 
These  were  summed  up  in  the  fact  that  Verena  was  now 
not  to  be  trusted  for  an  hour.  She  had  sworn  to  her  the 
night  before,  with  a  face  like  a  lacerated  angel's,  that  her 
choice  was  made,  that  their  union  and  their  work  were 
more  to  her  than  any  other  life  could  ever  be,  and  that 
she  deeply  believed  ,that  should  she  forswear  these  holy 
things  she  should  simply  waste  away,  in  the  end,  with 
remorse  and  shame.  She  would  see  Mr.  Ransom  just 
once  more,  for  ten  minutes,  to  utter  one  or  two  supreme 
truths  to  him,  and  then  they  would  take  up  their  old, 
happy,  active,  fruitful  days  again,  would  throw  themselves 
more  than  ever  into  their  splendid  effort.  Olive  had  seen 
how  Verena  was  moved  by  Miss  Birdseye's  death,  how  at 
the  sight  of  that  unique  woman's  majestically  simple  with- 
drawal from  a  scene  in  which  she  had  held  every  vulgar 
aspiration,  every  worldly  standard  and  lure,  so  cheap,  the 
girl  had  been  touched  again  with  the  spirit  of  their  most 
confident  hours,  had  flamed  up  with  the  faith  that  no 
narrow  personal  joy  could  compare  in  sweetness  with  the 
idea  of  doing  something  for  those  who  had  always  suffered 
and  who  waited  still.  This  helped  Olive  to  believe  that 
she  might  begin  to  count  upon  her  again,  conscious  as  she 
was  at  the  same  time  that  Verena  had  been  strangely 
weakened  and  strained  by  her  odious  ordeal.  Oh,  Olive 
knew  that  she  loved  him — knew  what  the  passion  was  with 
which  the  wretched  girl  had  to  struggle ;  and  she  did  her 
the  justice  to  believe  that  her  professions  were  sincere,  her 
effort  was  real.  Harassed  and  embittered  as  she  was,  Olive 
Chancellor  still  proposed  to  herself  to  be  rigidly  just,  and 


408  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

that  is  why  she  pitied  Verena  now  with  an  unspeakable  pity, 
regarded  her  as  the  victim  of  an  atrocious  spell,  and  re- 
served all  her  execration  and  contempt  for  the  author  of 
their  common  misery.  If  Verena  had  stepped  into  a  boat 
with  him  half  an  hour  after  declaring  that  she  would  give 
him  his  dismissal  in  twenty  words,  that  was  because  he  had 
ways,  known  to  himself  and  other  men,  of  creating  situations 
without  an  issue,  of  forcing  her  to  do  things  she  could  do 
only  with  sharp  repugnance,  under  the  menace  of  pain  that 
would  be  sharper  still.  But  all  the  same,  what  actually 
stared  her  in  the  face  was  that  Verena  was  not  to  be  trusted, 
even  after  rallying  again  as  passionately  as  she  had  done 
during  the  days  that  followed  Miss  Birdseye's  death.  Olive 
would  have  liked  to  know  the  pang  of  penance  that  she 
would  have  been  afraid,  in  her  place,  to  incur ;  to  see  the 
locked  door  which  she  would  not  have  managed  to  force 
open  ! 

This  inexpressibly  mournful  sense  that,  after  all,  Verena, 
in  her  exquisite  delicacy  and  generosity,  was  appointed  only 
to  show  how  women  had  from  the  beginning  of  time  been 
the  sport  of  men's  selfishness  and  avidity,  this  dismal  con- 
viction accompanied  Olive  on  her  walk,  which  lasted  all  the 
afternoon,  and  in  which  she  found  a  kind  of  tragic  relief. 
She  went  very  far,  keeping  in  the  lonely  places,  unveiling 
her  face  to  the  splendid  light,  which  seemed  to  make  a 
mock  of  the  darkness  and  bitterness  of  her  spirit.  There 
were  little  sandy  coves,  where  the  rocks  were  clean,  where 
she  made  long  stations,  sinking  down  in  them  as  if  she 
hoped  she  should  never  rise  again.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  been  out  since  Miss  Birdseye's  death,  except  the  hour 
when,  with  the  dozen  sympathisers  who  came  from  Boston, 
she  stood  by  the  tired  old  woman's  grave.  Since  then,  for 
three  days,  she  had  been  writing  letters,  narrating,  describing 
to  those  who  hadn't  come ;  there  were  some,  she  thought, 
who  might  have  managed  to  do  so,  instead  of  despatching 
her  pages  of  diffuse  reminiscence  and  asking  her  for  all 
particulars  in  return.  Selah  Tarrant  and  his  wife  had 
come,  obtrusively,  as  she  thought,  for  they  never  had  had 
very  much  intercourse  with  Miss  Birdseye ;  and  if  it  was 
for  Verena's  sake,  Verena  was  there  to  pay  every  tribute 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  409 

herself.  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  evidently  hoped  Miss  Chancellor 
would  ask  her  to  stay  on  at  Marmion,  but  Olive  felt  how 
little  she  was  in  a  state  for  such  heroics  of  hospitality.  It 
was  precisely  in  order  that  she  should  not  have  to  do  that 
sort  of  thing  that  she  had  given  Selah  such  considerable  sums, 
on  two  occasions,  at  a  year's  interval.  If  the  Tarrants 
wanted  a  change  of  air  they  could  travel  all  over  the 
country — their  present  means  permitted  it ;  they  could  go 
to  Saratoga  or  Newport  if  they  liked.  Their  appearance 
showed  that  they  could  put  their  hands  into  their  pockets 
(or  into  hers);  at  least  Mrs.  Tarrant's  did.  Selah  still 
sported  (on  a  hot  day  in  August),  his  immemorial  water- 
proof; but  his  wife  rustled  over  the  low  tombstones  at 
Marmion  in  garments  of  which  (little  as  she  was  versed  in 
such  inquiries),  Olive  could  see  that  the  cost  had  been  large. 
Besides,  after  Doctor  Prance  had  gone  (when  all  was  over), 
she  felt  what  a  relief  it  was  that  Verena  and  she  could  be 
just  together — together  with  the  monstrous  wedge  of  a 
question  that  had  come  up  between  them.  That  was 
company  enough,  great  heaven  !  and  she  had  not  got  rid  of 
such  an  inmate  as  Doctor  Prance  only  to  put  Mrs.  Tarrant 
in  her  place. 

Did  Verena' s  strange  aberration,  on  this  particular  day, 
suggest  to  Olive  that  it  was  no  use  striving,  that  the  world 
was  all  a  great  trap  or  trick,  of  which  women  were  ever  the 
punctual  dupes,  so  that  it  was  the  worst  of  the  curse  that 
rested  upon  them  that  they  must  most  humiliate  those  who 
had  most  their  cause  at  heart  ?  Did  she  say  to  herself  that 
their  weakness  was  not  only  lamentable  but  hideous — 
hideous  their  predestined  subjection  to  man's  larger  and 
grosser  insistence?  Did  she  ask  herself  why  she  should 
give  up  her  life  to  save  a  sex  which,  after  all,  didn't  wish  to 
be  saved,  and  which  rejected  the  truth  even  after  it  had 
bathed  them  with  its  auroral  light  and  they  had  pretended 
to  be  fed  and  fortified  ?  These  are  mysteries  into  which  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  enter,  speculations  with  which  I  have 
no  concern ;  it  is  sufficient  for  us  to  know  that  all  human 
effort  had  never  seemed  to  her  so  barren  and  thankless  as 
on  that  fatal  afternoon.  Her  eyes  rested  on  the  boats  she 
saw  in  the  distance,  and  she  wondered  if  in  one  of  them 


410  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

Verena  were  floating  to  her  fate ;  but  so  far  from  straining 
forward  to  beckon  her  home  she  almost  wished  that  she 
might  glide  away  for  ever,  that  she  might  never  see  her 
again,  never  undergo  the  horrible  details  of  a  more  deliberate 
separation.  Olive  lived  over,  in  her  miserable  musings,  her 
life  for  the  last  two  years ;  she  knew,  again,  how  noble  and 
beautiful  her  scheme  had  been,  but  how  it  had  all  rested 
on  an  illusion  of  which  the  very  thought  made  her  feel  faint 
and  sick.  What  was  before  her  now  was  the  reality,  with 
the  beautiful,  indifferent  sky  pouring  down  its  complacent 
rays  upon  it.  The  reality  was  simply  that  Verena  had  been 
more  to  her  than  she  ever  was  to  Verena,  and  that,  with  her 
exquisite  natural  art,  the  girl  had  cared  for  their  cause  only 
because,  for  the  time,  no  interest,  no  fascination,  was 
greater.  Her  talent,  the  talent  which  was  to  achieve  such 
wonders,  was  nothing  to  her ;  it  was  too  easy,  she  could 
leave  it  alone,  as  she  might  close  her  piano,  for  months ;  it 
was  only  to  Olive  that  it  was  everything.  Verena  had  sub- 
mitted, she  had  responded,  she  had  lent  herself  to  Olive's 
incitement  and  exhortation,  because  she  was  sympathetic 
and  young  and  abundant  and  fanciful ;  but  it  had  been  a 
kind  of  hothouse  loyalty,  the  mere  contagion  of  example, 
and  a  sentiment  springing  up  from  within  had  easily 
breathed  a  chill  upon  it.  Did  Olive  ask  herself  whether, 
for  so  many  months,  her  companion  had  been  only  the 
most  unconscious  and  most  successful  of  humbugs  ?  Here 
again  I  must  plead  a  certain  incompetence  to  give  an 
answer.  Positive  it  is  that  she  spared  herself  none  of  the 
inductions  of  a  reverie  that  seemed  to  dry  up  the  mists  and 
ambiguities  of  life.  These  hours  of  backward  clearness 
come  to  all  men  and  women,  once  at  least,  when  they  read 
the  past  in  the  light  of  the  present,  with  the  reasons  of 
things,  like  unobserved  finger-posts,  protruding  where  they 
never  saw  them  before.  The  journey  behind  them  is 
mapped  out  and  figured,  with  its  false  steps,  its  wrong 
observations,  all  its  infatuated,  deluded  geography.  They 
understand  as  Olive  understood,  but  it  is  probable  that  they 
rarely  suffer  as  she  suffered.  The  sense  of  regret  for  her 
baffled  calculations  burned  within  her  like  a  fire,  and  the 
splendour  of  the  vision  over  which  the  curtain  of  mourning 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  411 

now  was  dropped  brought  to  her  eyes  slow,  still  tears,  tears 
that  came  one  by  one,  neither  easing  her  nerves  nor  lighten- 
ing her  load  of  pain.  She  thought  of  her  innumerable  talks 
with  Verena,  of  the  pledges  they  had  exchanged,  of  their 
earnest  studies,  their  faithful  work,  their  certain  reward,  the 
winter-nights  under  the  lamp,  when  they  thrilled  with  pre- 
visions as  just  and  a  passion  as  high  as  had  ever  found 
shelter  in  a  pair  of  human  hearts.  The  pity  of  it,  the 
misery  of  such  a  fall  after  such  a  flight,  could  express  itself 
only,  as  the  poor  girl  prolonged  the  vague  pauses  of  her 
unnoticed  ramble,  in  a  low,  inarticulate  murmur  of  anguish. 
The  afternoon  waned,  bringing  with  it  the  slight  chill 
which,  at  the  summer's  end,  begins  to  mark  the  shortening 
days.  She  turned  her  face  homeward,  and  by  this  time 
became  conscious  that  if  Verena's  companion  had  not  yet 
brought  her  back  there  might  be  ground  for  uneasiness  as 
to  what  had  happened  to  them.  It  seemed  to  her  that  no 
sail-boat  could  have  put  into  the  town  without  passing  more 
or  less  before  her  eyes  and  showing  her  whom  it  carried ; 
she  had  seen  a  dozen,  freighted  only  with  the  figures  of  men. 
An  accident  was  perfectly  possible  (what  could  Ransom, 
with  his  plantation-habits,  know  about  the  management  of 
a  sail?),  and  once  that  danger  loomed  before  her — the 
signal  loveliness  of  the  weather  had  prevented  its  striking 
her  before — Olive's  imagination  hurried,  with  a  bound,  to 
the  worst.  She  saw  the  boat  overturned  and  drifting  out 
to  sea,  and  (after  a  week  of  nameless  horror)  the  body  of 
an  unknown  young  woman,  defaced  beyond  recognition,  but 
with  long  auburn  hair  and  in  a  white  dress,  washed  up  in 
some  far-away  cove.  An  hour  before,  her  mind  had  rested 
with  a  sort  of  relief  on  the  idea  that  Verena  should  sink 
for  ever  beneath  the  horizon,  so  that  their  tremendous 
trouble  might  never  be ;  but  now,  with  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  a  sharp,  immediate  anxiety  took  the  place  of  that 
intended  resignation ;  and  she  quickened  her  step,  with  a 
heart  that  galloped  too  as  she  went.  Then  it  was,  above 
all,  that  she  felt  how  she  had  understood  friendship,  and 
how  never  again  to  see  the  face  of  the  creature  she  had 
taken  to  her  soul  would  be  for  her  as  the  stroke  of  blind- 
ness. The  twilight  had  become  thick  by  the  time  she 


412  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

reached  Marmion  and  paused  for  an  instant  in  front  of  her 
house,  over  which  the  elms  that  stood  on  the  grassy  way- 
side appeared  to  her  to  hang  a  blacker  curtain  than  ever 
before. 

There  was  no  candle  in  any  window,  and  when  she 
pushed  in  and  stood  in  the  hall,  listening  a  moment, 
her  step  awakened  no  answering  sound.  Her  heart  failed 
her ;  Verena's  staying  out  in  a  boat  from  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  till  nightfall  was-,  too  unnatural,  and  she  gave  a 
cry,  as  she  rushed  into  the  low,  dim  parlour  (darkened  on 
one  side,  at  that  hour,  by  the  wide-armed  foliage,  and  on 
the  other  by  the  veranda  and  trellis),  which  expressed  only 
a  wild  personal  passion,  a  desire  to  take  her  friend  in  her 
arms  again  on  any  terms,  even  the  most  cruel  to  herself. 
The  next  moment  she  started  back,  with  another  and  a  dif- 
ferent exclamation,  for  Verena  was  in  the  room,  motionless, 
in  a  corner — the  first  place  in  which  she  had  seated  herself 
on  re-entering  the  house — looking  at  her  with  a  silent 
face  which  seemed  strange,  unnatural,  in  the  dusk.  Olive 
stopped  short,  and  for  a  minute  the  two  women  remained  as 
they  were,  gazing  at  each  other  in  the  dimness.  After  that, 
too,  Olive  still  said  nothing ;  she  only  went  to  Verena  and 
sat  down  beside  her.  She  didn't  know  what  to  make  of 
her  manner;  she  had  never  been  like  that  before.  She 
was  unwilling  to  speak ;  she  seemed  crushed  and  humbled. 
This  was  almost  the  worst — if  anything  could  be  worse  than 
what  had  gone  before  j  and  Olive  took  her  hand  with  an 
irresistible  impulse  of  compassion  and  reassurance.  From 
the  way  it  lay  in  her  own  she  guessed  her  whole  feeling 
— saw  it  was  a  kind  of  shame,  shame  for  her  weakness, 
her  swift  surrender,  her  insane  gyration,  in  the  morning. 
Verena  expressed  it  by  no  protest  and  no  explanation ;  she 
appeared  not  even  to  wish  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice.  Her  silence  itself  was  an  appeal — an  appeal  to 
Olive  to  ask  no  questions  (she  could  trust  her  to  inflict  no 
spoken  reproach) ;  only  to  wait  till  she  could  lift  up  her 
head  again.  Olive  understood,  or  thought  she  understood, 
and  the  wofulness  of  it  all  only  seemed  the  deeper.  She 
would  just  sit  there  and  hold  her  hand ;  that  was  all  she 
could  do ;  they  were  beyond  each  other's  help  in  any  other 


xxxix.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  413 

way  now.  Verena  leaned  her  head  back  and  closed  her 
eyes,  and  for  an  hour,  as  nightfall  settled  in  the  room, 
neither  of  the  young  women  spoke.  Distinctly,  it  was  a 
kind  of  shame.  After  a  while  the  parlour-maid,  very  casual, 
in  the  manner  of  the  servants  at  Marmion,  appeared  on  the 
threshold  with  a  lamp ;  but  Olive  motioned  her  frantically 
away.  She  wished  to  keep  the  darkness.  It  was  a  kind 
of  shame. 

The  next  morning  Basil  Ransom  rapped  loudly  with  his 
walking-stick  on  the  lintel  of  Miss  Chancellor's  house-door, 
which,  as  usual  on  fine  days,  stood  open.  There  was  no 
need  he  should  wait  till  the  servant  had  answered  his 
summons ;  for  Olive,  who  had  reason  to  believe  he  would 
come,  and  who  had  been  lurking  in  the  sitting-room  for  a 
purpose  of  her  own,  stepped  forth  into  the  little  hall. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you ;  I  had  the  hope  that — for  a 
moment — I  might  see  Miss  Tarrant.'  That  was  the  speech 
with  which  (and  a  measured  salutation),  he  greeted  his 
advancing  kinswoman.  She  faced  him  an  instant,  and  her 
strange  green  eyes  caught  the  light. 

1  It's  impossible.     You  may  believe  that  when  I  say  it.' 

'Why  is  it  impossible?'  he  asked,  smiling  in  spite  of  an 
inward  displeasure.  And  as  Olive  gave  him  no  answer, 
only  gazing  at  him  with  a  cold  audacity  which  he  had  not 
hitherto  observed  in  her,  he  added  a  little  explanation. 
'  It  is  simply  to  have  seen  her  before  I  go — to  have  said 
five  words  to  her.  I  want  her  to  know  that  I  have  made 
up  my  mind — since  yesterday — to  leave  this  place ;  I  shall 
take  the  train  at  noon.' 

It  was  not  to  gratify  Olive  Chancellor  that  he  had 
determined  to  go  away,  or  even  that  he  told  her  this ;  yet 
he  was  surprised  that  his  words  brought  no  expression  of 
pleasure  to  her  face.  '  I  don't  think  it  is  of  much  im- 
portance whether  you  go  away  or  not.  Miss  Tarrant  herself 
has  gone  away/ 

'Miss  Tarrant — gone  away?'  This  announcement  was 
so  much  at  variance  with  Verena's  apparent  intentions  the 
night  before  that  his  ejaculation  expressed  chagrin  as  well 
as  surprise,  and  in  doing  so  it  gave  Olive  a  momentary 
advantage.  It  was  the  only  one  she  had  ever  had,  and  the 


4i 4  THE  BOSTONIANS.  xxxix. 

poor  girl  may  be  excused  for  having  enjoyed  it — so  far  as 
enjoyment  was  possible  to  her.  Basil  Ransom's  visible 
discomfiture  was  more  agreeable  to  her  than  anything  had 
been  for  a  long  time. 

'  I  went  with  her  myself  to  the  early  train ;  and  I  saw  it 
leave  the  station.'  And  Olive  kept  her  eyes  unaverted,  for 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  how  he  took  it. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  he  took  it  rather  ill.  He  had 
decided  it  was  best  he  should  retire,  but  Verena's  retiring 
was  another  matter.  'And  where  is  she  gone?'  he  asked, 
with  a  frown. 

' 1  don't  think  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you.' 

'  Of  course  not !  Excuse  my  asking.  It  is  much  better 
that  I  should  find  it  out  for  myself,  because  if  I  owed  the 
information  to  you  I  should  perhaps  feel  a  certain  delicacy 
as  regards  profiting  by  it.' 

'Gracious  heaven!'  cried  Miss  Chancellor,  at  the  idea 
of  Ransom's  delicacy.  Then  she  added  more  deliberately  : 
'  You  will  not  find  out  for  yourself.' 

'You  think  not?' 

'  I  am  sure  of  it !'  And  her  enjoyment  of  the  situation 
becoming  acute,  there  broke  from  her  lips  a  shrill,  un- 
familiar, troubled  sound,  which  performed  the  office  of  a 
laugh,  a  laugh  of  triumph,  but  which,  at  a  distance,  might 
have  passed  almost  as  well  for  a  wail  of  despair.  It  rang 
in  Ransom's  ears  as  he  quickly  turned  away. 


XL. 

IT  was  Mrs.  Luna  who  received  him,  as  she  had  received 
him  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  Charles  Street ;  by 
which  I  do  not  mean  quite  in  the  same  way.  She  had 
known  very  little  about  him  then,  but  she  knew  too  much 
for  her  happiness  to-day,  and  she  had  with  him  now  a  little 
invidious,  contemptuous  manner,  as  if  everything  he  should 
say  or  do  could  be  a  proof  only  of  abominable  duplicity 
and  perversity.  She  had  a  theory  that  he  had  treated  her 
shamefully ;  and  he  knew  it — I  do  not  mean  the  fact,  but 
the  theory :  which  led  him  to  reflect  that  her  resentments 
were  as  shallow  as  her  opinions,  inasmuch  as  if  she  really 
believed  in  her  grievance,  or  if  it  had  had  any  dignity,  she 
would  not  have  consented  to  see  him.  He  had  not 
presented  himself  at  Miss  Chancellor's  door  without  a  very 
good  reason,  and  having  done  so  he  could  not  turn  away 
so  long  as  there  was  any  one  in  the  house  of  whom  he 
might  have  speech.  He  had  sent  up  his  name  to  Mrs. 
Luna,  after  being  told  that  she  was  staying  there,  on  the 
mere  chance  that  she  would  see  him;  for  he  thought  a 
refusal  a  very  possible  sequel  to  the  letters  she  had  written 
him  during  the  past  four  or  five  months — letters  he  had 
scarcely  read,  full  of  allusions  of  the  most  cutting  sort  to 
proceedings  of  his,  in  the  past,  of  which  he  had  no  recollec- 
tion whatever.  They  bored  him,  for  he  had  quite  other 
matters  in  his  mind. 

'  I  don't  wonder  you  have  the  bad  taste,  the  crudity,'  she 
said,  as  soon  as  he  came  into  the  room,  looking  at  him 
more  sternly  than  he  would  have  believed  possible  to  her. 

He  saw  that  this  was  an  allusion  to  his  not  having  been 
to  see  her  since  the  period  of  her  sister's  visit  to  New  York ; 
he  having  conceived  for  her,  the  evening  of  Mrs.  Burrage's 


416  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

party,  a  sentiment  of  aversion  which  put  an  end  to  such 
attentions.  He  didn't  laugh,  he  was  too  worried  and  pre- 
occupied ;  but  he  replied,  in  a  tone  which  apparently  an- 
noyed her  as  much  as  any  indecent  mirth :  '  I  thought  it 
very  possible  you  wouldn't  see  me.' 

*  Why  shouldn't  I  see  you,  if  I  should  take  it  into  my 
head?  Do  you  suppose  I  care  whether  I  see  you  or  not?' 

6 1  supposed  you  wanted  to,  from  your  letters.' 

'Then  why  did  you  think  I  would  refuse?' 

'Because  that's  the  sort  of  thing  women  do.' 

'  Women — women  !     You  know  much  about  them  !' 

'  I  am  learning  something  every  day.' 

'You  haven't  learned  yet,  apparently,  to  answer  their 
letters.  It's  rather  a  surprise  to  me  that  you  don't  pretend 
not  to  have  received  mine/ 

Ransom  could  smile  now ;  the  opportunity  to  vent  the 
exasperation  that  had  been  consuming  him  almost  restored 
his  good  humour.  '  What  could  I  say  ?  You  overwhelmed 
me.  Besides,  I  did  answer  one  of  them.' 

'  One  of  them  ?  You  speak  as  if  I  had  written  you  a 
dozen  !'  Mrs.  Luna  cried. 

'  I  thought  that  was  your  contention — that  you  had  done 
me  the  honour  to  address  me  so  many.  They  were  crush- 
ing, and  when  a  man's  crushed,  it's  all  over.' 

'  Yes,  you  look  as  if  you  were  in  very  small  pieces !  I 
am  glad  I  shall  never  see  you  again.' 

'  I  can  see  now  why  you  received  me — to  tell  me  that,' 
Ransom  said. 

'  It  is  a  kind  of  pleasure.     I  am  going  back  to  Europe.' 

'Really?  for  Newton's  education?' 

'  Ah,  I  wonder  you  can  have  the  face  to  speak  of  that — 
after  the  way  you  deserted  him !' 

'  Let  us  abandon  the  subject,  then,  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  want.' 

'  I  don't  in  the  least  care  what  you  want/  Mrs.  Luna 
remarked.  '  And  you  haven't  even  the  grace  to  ask  me 
where  I  am  going — over  there.' 

'  What  difference  does  that  make  to  me — once  you  leave 
these  shores  ?' 

Mrs.  Luna  rose  to  her  feet.     'Ah,  chivalry,  chivalry!' 


XL.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  417 

she  exclaimed  And  she  walked  away  to  the  window  —  one 
of  the  windows  from  which  Ransom  had  first  enjoyed,  at 
Olive's  solicitation,  the  view  of  the  Back  Bay.  Mrs.  Luna 
looked  forth  at  it  with  little  of  the  air  of  a  person  who  was 
sorry  to  be  about  to  lose  it.  '  I  am  determined  you  shall 
know  where  I  am  going,'  she  said  in  a  moment.  '  I  am 
going  to  Florence.' 

'  Don't  be  afraid  !'  he  replied.     '  I  shall  go  to  Rome/ 

'  And  you'll  carry  there  more  impertinence  than  has  been 
seen  there  since  the  old  emperors.' 

'Were  the  emperors  impertinent,  in  addition  to  their 
other  vices  ?  I  am  determined,  on  my  side,  that  you  shall 
know  what  I  have  come  for,'  Ransom  said.  '  I  wouldn't 
ask  you  if  I  could  ask  any  one  else  ;  but  I  am  very  hard 
pressed,  and  I  don't  know  who  can  help  me.' 

Mrs.  Luna  turned  on  him  a  face  of  the  frankest  derision. 
'  Help  you  ?  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  I  asked  you 
to  help  me?' 

'That  evening  at  Mrs.  Burrage's?  Surely  I  wasn't 
wanting  then;  I  remember  urging  on  your  acceptance  a 
chair,  so  that  you  might  stand  on  it,  to  see  and  to  hear.' 

'To  see  and  to  hear  what,  please?  Your  disgusting 
infatuation  !' 

'  It's  just  about  that  I  want  to  speak  to  you,'  Ransom 
pursued.  '  As  you  already  know  all  about  it,  you  have 
no  new  shock  to  receive,  and  I  therefore  venture  to  ask 
you  -  ' 

'Where  tickets  for  her  lecture  to-night  can  be  obtained? 
Is  it  possible  she  hasn't  sent  you  one?' 

'  I  assure  you  I  didn't  come  to  Boston  to  hear  it,'  said 
Ransom,  with  a  sadness  which  Mrs.  Luna  evidently  regarded 
as  a  refinement  of  outrage.  '  What  I  should  like  to  ascer- 
tain is  where  Miss  Tarrant  may  be  found  at  the  present 
moment.' 

'And  do  you  think  that's  a  delicate  inquiry  to  make 


. 

'  I  don't  see  why  it  shouldn't  be,  but  I  know  you  don't 
think  it  is,  and  that  is  why,  as  I  say,  I  mention  the  matter 
to  you  only  because  I  can  imagine  absolutely  no  one  else 
who  is  in  a  position  to  assist  me.  I  have  been  to  the 

2  E 


418  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

house  of  Miss  Tarrant's  parents,  in  Cambridge,  but  it  is 
closed  and  empty,  destitute  of  any  sign  of  life.  I  went 
there  first,  on  arriving  this  morning,  and  rang  at  this  door 
only  when  my  journey  to  Monadnoc  Place  had  proved  fruit- 
less. Your  sister's  servant  told  me  that  Miss  Tarrant  was 
not  staying  here,  but  she  added  that  Mrs.  Luna  was.  No 
doubt  you  won't  be  pleased  at  having  been  spoken  of  as 
a  sort  of  equivalent ;  and  I  didn't  say  to  myself — or  to  the 
servant — that  you  would  do  as  well ;  I  only  reflected  that  I 
could  at  least  try  you.  I  didn't  even  ask  for  Miss  Chancellor, 
as  I  am  sure  she  would  give  me  no  information  whatever.' 

Mrs.  Luna  listened  to  this  candid  account  of  the  young 
man's  proceedings  with  her  head  turned  a  little  over  her 
shoulder  at  him,  and  her  eyes  fixed  as  unsympathetically 
as  possible  upon  his  own.  'What  you  propose,  then,  as  I 
understand  it,'  she  said  in  a  moment,  'is  that  I  should 
betray  my  sister  to  you.' 

'Worse  than  that;  I  propose  that  you  should  betray 
Miss  Tarrant  herself.' 

'What  do  I  care  about  Miss  Tarrant ?  I  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about.' 

'  Haven't  you  really  any  idea  where  she  is  living  ? 
Haven't  you  seen  her  here  ?  Are  Miss  Olive  and  she  not 
constantly  together?' 

Mrs.  Luna,  at  this,  turned  full  round  upon  him,  and, 
with  folded  arms  and  her  head  tossed  back,  exclaimed : 
'  Look  here,  Basil  Ransom,  I  never  thought  you  were  a  fool, 
but  it  strikes  me  that  since  we  last  met  you  have  lost  your  wits !' 

'  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,'  Ransom  answered,  smiling. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  everything 
about  Miss  Tarrant  that  can  be  known  ?' 

'  I  have  neither  seen  her  nor  heard  of  her  for  the  last 
ten  weeks;  Miss  Chancellor  has  hidden  her  away.' 

'  Hidden  her  away,  with  all  the  walls  and  fences  of 
Boston  flaming  to-day  with  her  name?' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  have  noticed  that,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
by  waiting  till  this  evening  I  shall  be  able  to  see  her.  But 
I  don't  want  to  wait  till  this  evening;  I  want  to  see  her 
now,  and  not  in  public — in  private.' 

'Do  you  indeed? — how  interesting !'  cried  Mrs.  Luna, 


XL.  THE  J30STONIANS.  419 

with  rippling  laughter.  ( And  pray  what  do  you  want  to  do 
with  her?' 

Ransom  hesitated  a  little.  '  I  think  I  would  rather  not 
tell  you.' 

'  Your  charming  frankness,  then,  has  its  limits  !  My 
poor  cousin,  you  are  really  too  naif.  Do  you  suppose  it 
matters  a  straw  to  me?' 

Ransom  made  no  answer  to  this  appeal,  but  after  an 
instant  he  broke  out :  '  Honestly,  Mrs.  Luna,  can  you  give 
me  no  clue?' 

'  Lord,  what  terrible  eyes  you  make,  and  what  terrible 
words  you  use!  "Honestly,"  quoth  he  !  Do  you  think  I  am 
so  fond  of  the  creature  that  I  want  to  keep  her  all  to  myself?' 

'  I  .don't  know ;  I  don't  understand,'  said  Ransom, 
slowly  and  softly,  but  still  with  his  terrible  eyes. 

1  And  do  you  think  I  understand  any  better  ?  You  are 
not  a  very  edifying  young  man,'  Mrs.  Luna  went  on ;  '  but 
I  really  think  you  have  deserved  a  better  fate  than  to  be 
jilted  and  thrown  over  by  a  girl  of  that  class.' 

'  I  haven't  been  jilted.  I  like  her  very  much,  but  she 
never  encouraged  me.' 

At  this  Mrs.  Luna  broke  again  into  articulate  scoffing. 
'  It  is  very  odd  that  at  your  age  you  should  be  so  little  a 
man  of  the  world ! ' 

Ransom  made  her  no  other  answer  than  to  remark, 
thoughtfully  and  rather  absently  :  '  Your  sister  is  really  very 
clever.' 

4  By  which  you  mean,  I  suppose,  that  I  am  not !'  Mrs. 
Luna  suddenly  changed  her  tone,  and  said,  with  the  greatest 
sweetness  and  humility :  *  God  knows,  I  have  never  pre- 
tended to  be !' 

Ransom  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  guessed  the 
meaning  of  this  altered  note.  It  had  suddenly  come  over 
her  that  with  her  'portrait  in  half  the  shop-fronts,  her 
advertisement  on  all  the  fences,  and  the  great  occasion  on 
which  she  was  to  reveal  herself  to  the  country  at  large  close 
at  hand,  Verena  had  become  so  conscious  of  high  destinies 
that  her  dear  friend's  Southern  kinsman  really  appeared  to 
her  very  small  game,  and  she  might  therefore  be  regarded 
as  having  cast  him  off.  If  this  were  the  case,  it  would 


420  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

perhaps  be  well  for  Mrs.  Luna  still  to  hold  on.  Basil's 
induction  was  very  rapid,  but  it  gave  him  time  to  decide 
that  the  best  thing  to  say  to  his  interlocutress  was  :  '  On 
what  day  do  you  sail  for  Europe?' 

'  Perhaps  I  shall  not  sail  at  all,'  Mrs.  Luna  replied, 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

'And  in  that  case — poor  Newton's  education?' 

*  I  should  try  to  content  myself  with  a  country  which 
has  given  you  yours.' 

'  Don't  you  want  him,  then,  to  be  a  man  of  the  world?' 

'Ah,  the  world,  the  world!'  she  murmured,  while  she 
watched,  in  the  deepening  dusk,  the  lights  of  the  town 
begin  to  reflect  themselves  in  the  Back  Bay.  'Has  it 
been  such  a  source  of  happiness  to  me  that  I  belong  to  it  ? ' 

'  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  Florence ! ' 
said  Ransom,  laughing. 

She  faced  him  once  more,  this  time  slowly,  and  declared 
that  she  had  never  known  anything  so  strange  as  his  state 
of  mind — she  would  be  so  glad  to  have  an  explanation  of 
it.  With  the  opinions  he  professed  (it  was  for  them  she 
had  liked  him — she  didn't  like  his  character),  why  on  earth 
should  he  be  running  after  a  little  fifth-rate  poseuse,  and  in 
such  a  frenzy  to  get  hold  of  her?  He  might  say  it  was 
none  of  her  business,  and  of  course  she  would  have  no 
answer  to  that;  therefore  she  admitted  that  she  asked 
simply  out  of  intellectual  curiosity,  and  because  one  always 
was  tormented  at  the  sight  of  a  painful  contradiction.  With 
the  things  she  had  heard  him  say  about  his  convictions  and 
theories,  his  view  of  life  and  the  great  questions  of  the 
future,  she  should  have  thought  he  would  find  Miss  Tarrant's 
attitudinising  absolutely  nauseous.  Were  not  her  views  the 
same  as  Olive's,  and  hadn't  Olive  and  he  signally  failed  to 
hit  it  off  together?  Mrs.  Luna  only  asked  because  she  was 
really  quite  puzzled.  '  Don't  you  know  that  some  minds, 
when  they  see  a  mystery,  can't  rest  till  they  clear  it  up?' 

1  You  can't  be  more  puzzled  than  I  am,'  said  Ransom. 
'Apparently  the  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  a  sort  of 
reversal  of  the  formula  you  were  so  good,  just  now,  as  to 
apply  to  me.  You  like  my  opinions,  but  you  entertain  a 
different  sentiment  for  my  character.  I  deplore  Miss 


XL.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  421 

Tarrant's  opinions,  but  her  character — well,  her  character 
pleases  me.' 

Mrs.  Luna  stared,  as  if  she  were  waiting,  the  explanation 
surely  not  being  complete.  'But  as  much  as  that?'  she 
inquired. 

'As  much  as  what?'  said  Ransom,  smiling.  Then  he 
added,  '  Your  sister  has  beaten  me.' 

'  I  thought  she  had  beaten  some  one  of  late ;  she  has 
seemed  so  gay  and  happy.  I  didn't  suppose  it  was  all 
because  I  was  going  away.' 

'  Has  she  seemed  very  gay  ?'  Ransom  inquired,  with  a 
sinking  of  the  heart.  He  wore  such  a  long  face,  as  he 
asked  this  question,  that  Mrs.  Luna  was  again  moved  to 
audible  mirth,  after  which  she  explained : 

{ Of  course  I  mean  gay  for  her.  Everything  is  relative. 
With  her  impatience  for  this  lecture  of  her  friend's  to-night, 
she's  in  an  unspeakable  state  !  She  can't  sit  still  for  three 
minutes,  she  goes  out  fifteen  times  a  day,  and  there  has 
been  enough  arranging  and  interviewing,  and  discussing 
and  telegraphing  and  advertising,  enough  wire-pulling  and 
rushing  about,  to  put  an  army  in  the  field.  What  is  it  they 
are  always  doing  to  the  armies  in  Europe? — mobilising 
them?  Well,  Verena  has  been  mobilised,  and  this  has 
been  headquarters.' 

'And  shall  you  go  to  the  Music  Hall  to-night?' 

'  For  what  do  you  take  me  ?  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
shrieked  at  for  an  hour.' 

'  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  Miss  Olive  must  be  in  a  state/ 
Ransom  went  on,  rather  absently.  Then  he  said,  with 
abruptness,  in  a  different  tone :  *  If  this  house  has  been,  as 
you  say,  headquarters,  how  comes  it  you  haven't  seen  her?' 

'Seen  Olive?  I  have  seen  nothing  else  !' 

'I  mean  Miss  Tarrant.  She  must  be  somewhere — in 
the  place — if  she's  to  speak  to-night.' 

'  Should  you  like  me  to  go  out  and  look  for  her  ?  //  ne 
manquerait  plus  que  cela  I '  cried  Mrs.  Luna.  '  What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Basil  Ransom,  and  what  are  you  after?' 
she  demanded,  with  considerable  sharpness.  She  had  tried 
haughtiness  and  she  had  tried  humility,  but  they  brought 
her  equally  face  to  face  with  a  competitor  whom  she  couldn't 


422  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

take  seriously,  yet  who  was  none  the  less  objectionable  for 
that. 

I  know  not  whether  Ransom  would  have  attempted  to 
answer  her  question  had  an  obstacle  not  presented  itself; 
at  any  rate,  at  the  moment  she  spoke,  the  curtain  in  the 
doorway  was  pushed  aside,  and  a  visitor  crossed  the 
threshold.  *  Mercy!  how  provoking  !'  Mrs,  Luna  exclaimed, 
audibly  enough ;  and  without  moving  from  her  place  she 
bent  an  uncharitable  eye  upon  the  invader,  a  gentleman 
whom  Ransom  had  the  sense  of  having  met  before.  He 
was  a  young  man  with  a  fresh  face  and  abundant  locks, 
prematurely  white;  he  stood  smiling  at  Mrs.  Luna,  quite 
undaunted  by  the  absence  of  any  demonstration  in  his 
favour.  She  looked  as  if  she  didn't  know  him,  while 
Ransom  prepared  to  depart,  leaving  them  to  settle  it 
together. 

'  I'm  afraid  you  don't  remember  me,  though  I  have  seen 
you  before,'  said  the  young  man,  very  amiably,  '  I  was  here 
a  week  ago,  and  Miss  Chancellor  presented  me  to  you.' 

'  Oh  yes ;  she's  not  at  home  now,'  Mrs.  Luna  returned, 
vaguely. 

'  So  I  was  told — but  I  didn't  let  that  prevent  me.'  And 
the  young  man  included  Rasil  Ransom  in  the  smile  with 
which  he  made  himself  more  welcome  than  Mrs.  Luna 
appeared  disposed  to  make  him,  and  by  which  he  seemed 
to  call  attention  to  his  superiority.  '  There  is  a  matter  on 
which  I  want  very  much  to  obtain  some  information,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  give  it  to  me.' 

'  It  comes  back  to  me — you  have  something  to  do  with 
the  newspapers,'  said  Mrs.  Luna;  and  Ransom  too,  by 
this  time,  had  placed  the  young  man  among  his  reminis- 
cences. He  had  been  at  Miss  Birdseye's  famous  party, 
and  Doctor  Prance  had  there  described  him  as  a  brilliant 
journalist. 

It  was  quite  with  the  air  of  such  a  personage  that  he 
accepted  Mrs.  Luna's  definition,  and  he  continued  to 
radiate  towards  Ransom  (as  if,  in  return,  he  remembered 
his  face),  while  he  dropped,  confidentially,  the  word  that 
expressed  everything — '"The  Vesper,"  don't  you  know?' 
Then  he  went  on :  '  Now,  Mrs.  Luna,  I  don't  care,  I'm 


XL.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  423 

not  going  to  let  you  off!  We  want  the  last  news  about 
Miss  Verena,  and  it  has  got  to  come  out  of  this  house.' 

'  Oh  murder !'  Ransom  muttered,  beneath  his  breath, 
taking  up  his  hat. 

'Miss  Chancellor  has  hidden  her  away;  I  have  been 
scouring  the  city  in  search  of  her,  and  her  own  father 
hasn't  seen  her  for  a  week.  We  have  got  his  ideas  j  they 
are  very  easy  to  get,  but  that' isn't  what  we  want.' 

'  And  what  do  you  want  ?'  Ransom  was  now  impelled 
to  inquire,  as  Mr.  Pardon  (even  the  name  at  present  came 
back  to  him),  appeared  sufficiently  to  have  introduced 
himself. 

1  We  want  to  know  how  she  feels  about  to-night ;  what 
report  she  makes  of  her  nerves,  her  anticipations ;  how  she 
looked,  what  she  had  on,  up  to  six  o'clock.  Gracious  !  if 
I  could  see  her  I  should  know  what  I  wanted,  and  so 
would  she,  I  guess  !'  Mr.  Pardon  exclaimed.  '  You  must 
know  something,  Mrs.  Luna ;  it  isn't  natural  you  shouldn't. 
I  won't  inquire  any  further  where  she  is,  because  that  might 
seem  a  little  pushing,  if  she  does  wish  to  withdraw  herself 
— though  I  am  bound  to  say  I  think  she  makes  a  mistake; 
we  could  work  up  these  last  hours  for  her  !  But  can't 
you  tell  me  any  little  personal  items — the  sort  of  thing  the 
pepple  like?  What  is  she  going  to  have  for  supper?  or 
is  she  going  to  speak — a — without  previous  nourishment  ? ' 

'Really,  sir,  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  in  the  least 
care ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  business  ! '  Mrs.  Luna 
cried,  angrily. 

The  reporter  stared ;  then,  eagerly,  '  You  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it — you  take  an  unfavourable  view,  you  pro- 
test?' And  he  was  already  feeling  in  a  side -pocket  for 
his  note-book. 

'  Mercy  on  us  !  are  you  going  to  put  that  in  the  paper? ' 
Mrs.  Luna  exclaimed  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  sense,  detestable 
to  him,  that  everything  he  wished  most  to  avert  was  fast 
closing  over  the  girl,  Ransom  broke  into  cynical  laughter. 

'  Ah,  but  do  protest,  madam ;  let  us  at  least  have  that 
fragment !'  Mr.  Pardon  went  on.  '  A  protest  from  this 
house  would  be  a  charming  note.  We  must  have  it — 
we've  got  nothing  else !  The  public  are  almost  as  much 


424  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

interested  in  your  sister  as  they  are  in  Miss  Verena ;  they 
know  to  what  extent  she  has  backed  her :  and  I  should 
be  so  delighted  (I  see  the  heading,  from  here,  so  attract- 
ive ! )  just  to  take  down  "  What  Miss  Chancellor's  Family 
Think  about  It!"' 

Mrs.  Luna  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  with  a  groan, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  '  Heaven  help  me,  I  am 
glad  I  am  going  to  Europe  !' 

'That  is  another  little  item — everything  counts,'  said 
Matthias  Pardon,  making  a  rapid  entry  in  his  tablets. 
'  May  I  inquire  whether  you  are  going  to  Europe  in  con- 
sequence of  your  disapproval  of  your  sister's  views?' 

Mrs.  Luna  sprang  up  again,  almost  snatching  the  memo- 
randa out  of  his  hand.  '  If  you  have  the  impertinence 
to  publish  a  word  about  me,  or  to  mention  my  name  in 
print,  I  will  come  to  your  office  and  make  such  a  scene  ! ' 

'  Dearest  lady,  that  would  be  a  godsend  ! '  Mr.  Pardon 
cried,  enthusiastically ;  but  he  put  his-  note-book  back  into 
his  pocket. 

'  Have  you  made  an  exhaustive  search  for  Miss  Tarrant?' 
Basil  Ransom  asked  of  him.  Mr.  Pardon,  at  this  inquiry, 
eyed  him  with  a  sudden,  familiar  archness,  expressive  of 
the  idea  of  competition ;  so  that  Ransom  added :  '  You 
needn't  be  afraid,  I'm  not  a  reporter.' 

'  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  had  come  on  from  New 
York.' 

'  So  I  have — but  not  as  the  representative  of  a  news- 
paper.' 

'  Fancy  his  taking  you '  Mrs.  Luna  murmured,  with 

indignation. 

'  Well,  I  have  been  everywhere  I  could  think  of,'  Mr. 
Pardon  remarked.  '  I  have  been  hunting  round  after  your 
sister's  agent,  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  catch  up  with 
him ;  I  suppose  he  has  been  hunting  on  his  side,  Miss 
Chancellor  told  me — Mrs.  Luna  may  remember  it — that 
she  shouldn't  be  here  at  all  during  the  week,  and  that  she 
preferred  not  to  tell  me  either  where  or  how  she  was  to 
spend  her  time  until  the  momentous  evening.  Of  course 
I  let  her  know  that  I  should  find  out  if  I  could,  and  you 
may  remember,'  he  said  to  Mrs.  Luna,  *  the  conversation 


XL.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  425 

we  had  on  the  subject.  I  remarked,  candidly,  that  if  they 
didn't  look  out  they  would  overdo  the  quietness.  Doctor 
Tarrant  has  felt  very  low  about  it.  However,  I  have  done 
what  I  could  with  the  material  at  my  command,  and  the 
"  Vesper "  has  let  the  public  know  that  her  whereabouts 
was  the  biggest  mystery  of  the  season.  It's  difficult  to 
get  round  the  "  Vesper."  ' 

'  I  am  almost  afraid  to  open  my  lips  in  your  presence.' 
Mrs.  Luna  broke  in,  'but  I  must  say  that  I  think  my 
sister  was  strangely  communicative.  She  told  you  ever  so 
much  that  I  wouldn't  have  breathed.' 

'I  should  like  to  try  you  with  something  you  know  !' 
Matthias  Pardon  returned,  imperturbably.  '  This  isn't  a 
fair  trial,  because  you  don't  know.  Miss  Chancellor  came 
round — came  round  considerably,  there's  no  doubt  of  that ; 
because  a  year  or  two  ago  she  was  terribly  unapproachable.  If 
I  have  mollified  her,  madam,  why  shouldn't  I  mollify  you  ? 
She  realises  that  I  can  help  her  now,  and  as  I  ain't  ran- 
corous I  am  willing  to  help  her  all  she'll  let  me.  The 
trouble  is,  she  won't  let  me  enough,  yet ;  it  seems  as  if  she 
couldn't  believe  it  of  me.  At  any  rate/  he  pursued,  ad- 
dressing himself  more  particularly  to  Ransom,  'half  an 
hour  ago,  at  the  Hall,  they  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
Miss  Tarrant,  beyond  the  fact  that  about  a  month  ago  she 
came  there,  with  Miss  Chancellor,  to  try  her  voice,  which 
rang  all  over  the  place,  like  silver,  and  that  Miss  Chancellor 
guaranteed  her  absolute  punctuality  to-night.' 

'  Well,  that's  all  that  is  required,'  said  Ransom,  at 
hazard;  and  he  put  out  his  hand,  in  farewell,  to  Mrs. 
Luna. 

'  Do  you  desert  me  already  ? '  she  demanded,  giving  him 
a  glance  which  would  have  embarrassed  any  spectator  but 
a  reporter  of  the  'Vesper.' 

'  I  have  fifty  things  to  do ;  you  must  excuse  me.'  He 
was  nervous,  restless,  his  heart  was  beating  much  faster  than 
usual ;  he  couldn't  stand  still,  and  he  had  no  compunction 
whatever  about  leaving  her  to  get  rid,  by  herself,  of  Mr. 
Pardon. 

This  gentleman  continued  to  mix  in  the  conversation, 
possibly  from  the  hope  that  if  he  should  linger  either  Miss 


426  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XL. 

Tarrant  or  Miss  Chancellor  would  make  her  appearance. 
'  Every  seat  in  the  Hall  is  sold ;  the  crowd  is  expected  to 
be  immense.  When  our  Boston  public  does  take  an  idea  ! ' 
Mr.  Pardon  exclaimed. 

Ransom  only  wanted  to  get  away,  and  in  order  to 
facilitate  his  release  by  implying  that  in  such  a  case  he 
should  see  her  again,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Luna,  rather  hypo- 
critically, from  the  threshold,  'You  had  really  better  come 
to-night.' 

'  I  am  not  like  the  Boston  public — I  don't  take  an  idea!' 
she  replied. 

'Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  not  going?'  cried  Mr. 
Pardon,  with  widely-open  eyes,  clapping  his  hand  again  to 
his  pocket.  '  Don't  you  regard  her  as  a  wonderful  genius  ?' 

Mrs.  Luna  was  sorely  tried,  and  the  vexation  of  seeing 
Ransom  slip  away  from  her  with  his  thoughts  visibly  on 
Verena,  leaving  her  face  to  face  with  the  odious  newspaper- 
man, whose  presence  made  passionate  protest  impossible — 
the  annoyance  of  seeing  everything  and  every  one  mock  at 
her  and  fail  to  compensate  her  was  such  that  she  lost  her 
head,  while  rashness  leaped  to  her  lips  and  jerked  out  the 
answer — '  No  indeed ;  I  think  her  a  vulgar  idiot !' 

'Ah,  madam,  I  should  never  permit  myself  to  print 
that ! '  Ransom  heard  Mr.  Pardon  rejoin,  reproachfully,  as 
he  dropped  the  porttire  of  the  drawing-room. 


XLI. 

HE  walked  about  for  the  next  two  hours,  walked  all  over 
Boston,  heedless  of  his  course,  and  conscious  only  of  an 
unwillingness  to  return  to  his  hotel  and  an  inability  to  eat 
his  dinner  or  rest  his  weary  legs.  He  had  been  roaming  in 
very  much  the  same  desperate  fashion,  at  once  eager  and 
purposeless,  for  many  days  before  he  left  New  York,  and  he 
knew  that  his  agitation  and  suspense  must  wear  themselves 
out.  At  present  they  pressed  him  more  than  ever;  they 
had  become  tremendously  acute.  The  early  dusk  of  the 
last  half  of  November  had  gathered  thick,  but  the  evening 
was  fine  and  the  lighted  streets  had  the  animation  and 
variety  of  a  winter  that  had  begun  with  brilliancy.  The 
shop-fronts  glowed  through  frosty  panes,  the  passers  bustled 
on  the  pavement,  the  bells  of  the  street-cars  jangled  in  the 
cold  air,  the  newsboys  hawked  the  evening -papers,  the 
vestibules  of  the  theatres,  illuminated  and  flanked  with  col- 
oured posters  and  the  photographs  of  actresses,  exhibited 
seductively  their  swinging  doors  of  red  leather  or  baize, 
spotted  with  little  brass  nails.  Behind  great  plates  of  glass 
the  interior  of  the  hotels  became  visible,  with  marble-paved 
lobbies,  white  with  electric  lamps,  and  columns,  and  West- 
erners on  divans  stretching  their  legs,  while  behind  a  counter, 
set  apart  and  covered  with  an  array  of  periodicals  and 
novels  in  paper  covers,  little  boys,  with  the  faces  of  old 
men,  showing  plans  of  the  play-houses  and  offering  librettos, 
sold  orchestra-chairs  at  a  premium.  When  from  time  to 
time  Ransom  paused  at  a  corner,  hesitating  which  way  to 
drift,  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  stars,  sharp  and  near,  scin- 
tillating over  the  town.  Boston  seemed  to  him  big  and  full 
of  nocturnal  life,  very  much  awake  and  preparing  for  an 
evening  of  pleasure. 


428  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

He  passed  and  repassed  the  Music  Hall,  saw  Verena 
immensely  advertised,  gazed  down  the  vista,  the  approach 
for  pedestrians,  which  leads  out  of  School  Street,  and 
thought  it  looked  expectant  and  ominous.  People  had  not 
begun  to  enter  yet,  but  the  place  was  ready,  lighted  and 
open,  and  the  interval  would  be  only  too  short.  So  it  ap- 
peared to  Ransom,  while  at  the  same  time  he  wished  im- 
mensely the  crisis  were  over.  Everything  that  surrounded 
him  referred  itself  to  the  idea  with  which  his  mind  was 
palpitating,  the  question  whether  he  might  not  still  inter- 
vene as  against  the  girl's  jump  into  the  abyss.  He  believed 
that  all  Boston  was  going  to  hear  her,  or  that  at  least  every 
one  was  whom  he  saw  in  the  streets;  and  there  was  a  kind  of 
incentive  and  inspiration  in  this  thought.  The  vision  of 
wresting  her  from  the  mighty  multitude  set  him  off  again, 
to  stride  through  the  population  that  would  fight  for  her. 
It  was  not  too  late,  for  he  felt  strong ;  it  would  not  be  too 
late  even  if  she  should  already  stand  there  before  thousands 
of  converging  eyes.  He  had  had  his  ticket  since  the 
morning,  and  now  the  time  was  going  on.  He  went  back 
to  his  hotel  at  last  for  ten  minutes,  and  refreshed  himself 
by  dressing  a  little  and  by  drinking  a  glass  of  wine.  Then 
he  took  his  way  once  more  to  the  Music  Hall,  and  saw  that 
people  were  beginning  to  go  in — the  first  drops  of  the  great 
stream,  among  whom  there  were  many  women.  Since 
seven  o'clock  the  minutes  had  moved  fast — before  that  they 
had  dragged — and  now  there  was  only  half  an  hour.  Ran- 
som passed  in  with  the  others ;  he  knew  just  where  his  seat 
was ;  he  had  chosen  it,  on  reaching  Boston,  from  the  few 
that  were  left,  with  what  he  believed  to  be  care.  But  now, 
as  he  stood  beneath  the  far-away  panelled  roof,  stretching 
above  the  line  of  little  tongues  of  flame  which  marked  its 
junction  with  the  walls,  he  felt  that  this  didn't  matter  much, 
since  he  certainly  was  not  going  to  subside  into  his  place. 
He  was  not  one  of  the  audience ;  he  was  apart,  unique, 
and  had  come  on  a  business  altogether  special.  It  wouldn't 
have  mattered  if,  in  advance,  he  had  got  no  place  at  all 
and  had  just  left  himself  to  pay  for  standing-room  at  the 
last.  The  people  came  pouring  in,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
there  would  only  be  standing-room  left.  Ransom  had  no 


XLI.  THE.BOSTONIANS.  429 

definite  plan ;  he  had  mainly  wanted  to  get  inside  of  the 
building,  so  that,  on  a  view  of  the  field,  he  might  make  up 
his  mind.  He  had  never  been  in  the  Music  Hall  before, 
and  its  lofty  vaults  and  rows  of  overhanging  balconies  made 
it  to  his  imagination  immense  and  impressive.  There  were 
two  or  three  moments  during  which  he  felt  as  he  could 
imagine  a  young  man  to  feel  who,  waiting  in  a  public  place, 
has  made  up  his  mind,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  to  discharge 
a  pistol  at  the  king  or  the  president. 

The  place  struck  him  with  a  kind  of  Roman  vastness ; 
the  doors  which  opened  out  of  the  upper  balconies,  high 
aloft,  and  which  were  constantly  swinging  to  and  fro  with 
the  passage  of  spectators  and  ushers,  reminded  him  of  the 
vomitoria  that  he  had  read  about  in  descriptions  of  the 
Colosseum.  The  huge  organ,  the  background  of  the  stage 
— a  stage  occupied  with  tiers  of  seats  for  choruses  and 
civic  worthies — lifted  to  the  dome  its  shining  pipes  and 
sculptured  pinnacles,  and  some  genius  of  music  or  oratory 
erected  himself  in  monumental  bronze  at  the  base.  The 
hall  was  so  capacious  and  serious,  and  the  audience  in- 
creased so  rapidly  without  filling  it,  giving  Ransom  a  sense 
of  the  numbers  it  would  contain  when  it  was  packed,  that 
the  courage  of  the  two  young  women,  face  to  face  with  so 
tremendous  an  ordeal,  hovered  before  him  as  really  sublime, 
especially  the  conscious  tension  of  poor  Olive,  who  would 
have  been  spared  none  of  the  anxieties  and  tremors,  none 
of  the  previsions  of  accident  or  calculations  of  failure.  In 
the  front  of  the  stage  was  a  slim,  high  desk,  like  a  music- 
stand,  with  a  cover  of  red  velvet,  and  near  it  was  a  light 
ornamental  chair,  on  which  he  was  sure  Verena  would  not 
seat  herself,  though  he  could  fancy  her  leaning  at  moments 
on  the  back.  Behind  this  was  a  kind  of  semicircle  of  a 
dozen  arm-chairs,  which  had  evidently  been  arranged  for 
the  friends  of  the  speaker,  her  sponsors  and  patrons.  The 
hall  was  more  and  more  full  of  premonitory  sounds ;  people 
making  a  noise  as  they  unfolded,  on  hinges,  their  seats,  and 
itinerant  boys,  whose  voices  as  they  cried  out  '  Photographs 
of  Miss  Tarrant — sketch  of  her  life !'  or  'Portraits  of  the 
Speaker — story  of  her  career !'  sounded  small  and  piping 
in  the  general  immensity.  Before  Ransom  was  aware  of  it 


430  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

several  of  the  arm-chairs,  in  the  row  behind  the  lecturer's 
desk,  were  occupied,  with  gaps,  and  in  a  moment  he  re- 
cognised, even  across  the  interval,  three  of  the  persons  who 
had  appeared.  The  straight-featured  woman  with  bands  of 
glossy  hair  and  eyebrows  that  told  at  a  distance,  could  only 
be  Mrs.  Farrinder,  just  as  the  gentleman  beside  her,  in  a 
white  overcoat,  with  an  umbrella  and  a  vague  face,  was 
probably  her  husband  Amariah.  At  the  opposite  end  of 
the  row  were  another  pair,  whom  Ransom,  unacquainted 
with  certain  chapters  of  Verena's  history,  perceived  without 
surprise  to  be  Mrs.  Burrage  and  her  insinuating  son.  Ap- 
parently their  interest  in  Miss  Tarrant  was  more  than  a 
momentary  fad,  since — like  himself — they  had  made  the 
journey  from  New  York  to  hear  her.  There  were  other 
figures,  unknown  to  our  young  man,  here  and  there,  in  the 
semicircle;  but  several  places  were  still  empty  (one  of  which 
was  of  course  reserved  for  Olive),  and  it  occurred  to 
Ransom,  even  in  his  preoccupation,  that  one  of  them  ought 
to  remain  so — ought  to  be  left  to  symbolise  the  presence, 
in  the  spirit,  of  Miss  Birdseye. 

He  bought  one  of  the  photographs  of  Verena,  and 
thought  it  shockingly  bad,  and  bought  also  the  sketch  of 
her  life,  which  many  people  seemed  to  be  reading,  but 
crumpled  it.  up  in  his  pocket  for  future  consideration. 
Verena  was  not  in  the  least  present  to  him  in  connection 
with  this  exhibition  of  enterprise  and  puffery;  what  he  saw 
was  Olive,  struggling  and  yielding,  making  every  sacrifice 
of  taste  for  the  sake  of  the  largest  hearing,  and  conforming 
herself  to  a  great  popular  system.  Whether  she  had 
struggled  or  not,  there  was  a  catch-penny  effect  about  the 
whole  thing  which  added  to  the  fever  in  his  cheek  and 
made  him  wish  he  had  money  to  buy  up  the  stock  of  the 
vociferous  little  boys.  Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  organ 
rolled  out  into  the  hall,  and  he  became  aware  that  the 
overture  or  prelude  had  begun.  This,  too,  seemed  to  him 
a  piece  of  claptrap,  but  he  didn't  wait  to  think  of  it ;  he 
instantly  edged  out  of  his  place,  which  he  had  chosen  near 
the  end  of  a  row,  and  reached  one  of  the  numerous  doors. 
If  he  had  had  no  definite  plan  he  now  had  at  least  an 
irresistible  impulse,  and  he  felt  the  prick  of  shame  at  having 


XLI.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  431 

faltered  for  a  moment.  It  had  been  his  tacit  calculation 
that  Verena,  still  enshrined  in  mystery  by  her  companion, 
would  not  have  reached  the  scene  of  her  performance  till 
within  a  few  minutes  of  the  time  at  which  she  was  to  come 
forth ;  so  that  he  had  lost  nothing  by  waiting,  up  to  this 
moment,  before  the  platform.  But  now  he  must  overtake 
his  opportunity.  Before  passing  out  of  the  hall  into  the 
lobby  he  paused,  and  with  his  back  to  the  stage,  gave  a 
look  at  the  gathered  auditory.  It  had  become  densely 
numerous,  and,  suffused  with  the  evenly  distributed  gaslight, 
which  fell  from  a  great  elevation,  and  the  thick  atmosphere 
that  hangs  for  ever  in  such  places,  it  appeared  to  pile  itself 
high  and  to  look  dimly  expectant  and  formidable.  He 
had  a  throb  of  uneasiness  at  his  private  purpose  of  balking 
it  of  its  entertainment,  its  victim — a  glimpse  of  the  ferocity 
that  lurks  in  a  disappointed  mob.  But  the  thought  of  that 
danger  only  made  him  pass  more  quickly  through  the  ugly 
corridors ;  he  felt  that  his  plan  was  definite  enough  now, 
and  he  found  that  he  had  no  need  even  of  asking  the  way 
to  a  certain  small  door  (one  or  more  of  them),  which  he 
meant  to  push  open.  In  taking  his  place  in  the  morning 
he  had  assured  himself  as  to  the  side  of  the  house  on 
which  (with  its  approach  to  the  platform),  the  withdrawing 
room  of  singers  and  speakers  was  situated ;  he  had  chosen 
his  seat  in  that  quarter,  and  he  now  had  not  far  to  go  before 
he  reached  it.  No  one  heeded  or  challenged  him ;  Miss 
Tarrant's  auditors  were  still  pouring  in  (the  occasion  was 
evidently  to  have  been  an  unprecedented  success  of 
curiosity),  and  had  all  the  attention  of  the  ushers.  Ransom 
opened  a  door  at  the  end  of  a  passage,  and  it  admitted  him 
into  a  sort  of  vestibule,  quite  bare  save  that  at  a  second 
door,  opposite  to  him,  stood  a  figure  at  the  sight  of  which 
he  paused  for  a  moment  in  his  advance. 

The  figure  was  simply  that  of  a  robust  policeman,  in  his 
helmet  and  brass  buttons — a  policeman  who  was  expecting 
him — Ransom  could  see  that  in  a  twinkling.  He  judged  in 
the  same  space  of  time  that  Olive  Chancellor  had  heard  of 
his  having  arrived  and  had  applied  for  the  protection  of 
this  functionary,  who  was  now  simply  guarding  the  ingress 
and  was  prepared  to  defend  it  against  all  comers.  There 


432  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

was  a  slight  element  of  surprise  in  this,  as  he  had  reasoned 
that  his  nervous  kinswoman  was  absent  from  her  house  for 
the  day — had  been  spending  it  all  in  Verena's  retreat,  where- 
ever  that  was.  The  surprise  was  not  great  enough,  however, 
to  interrupt  his  course  for  more  than  an  instant,  and  he 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  the  belted  sentinel. 
For  a  moment  neither  spoke ;  they  looked  at  each  other 
very  hard  in  the  eyes,  and  Ransom  heard  the  organ,  beyond 
partitions,  launching  its  waves  of  sound  through  the  hall. 
They  seemed  to  be  very  near  it,  and  the  whole  place 
vibrated.  The  policeman  was  a  tall,  lean-faced,  sallow 
man,  with  a  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  a  small,  steady  eye,  and 
something  in  his  mouth  which  made  a  protuberance  in  his 
cheek.  Ransom  could  see  that  he  was  very  strong,  but  he 
believed  that  he  himself  was  not  materially  less  so.  How- 
ever, he  had  not  come  there  to  show  physical  fight — a 
public  tussle  about  Verena  was  not  an  attractive  idea, 
except  perhaps,  after  all,  if  he  should  get  the  worst  of  it, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  Olive's  new  system  of  advertising ; 
and,  moreover,  it  would  not  be  in  the  least  necessary.  Still 
he  said  nothing,  and  still  the  policeman  remained  dumb, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  way  the  moments  elapsed 
and  in  our  young  man's  consciousness  that  Verena  was 
separated  from  him  only  by  a  couple  of  thin  planks,  which 
made  him  feel  that  she  too  expected  him,  but  in  another 
sense ;  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  parade  of 
resistance,  that  she  would  know  in  a  moment,  by  quick 
intuition,  that  he  was  there,  and  that  she  was  only  praying 
to  be  rescued,  to  be  saved.  Face  to  face  with  Olive  she 
hadn't  the  courage,  but  she  would  have  it  with  her  hand 
in  his.  It  came  to  him  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
world  less  sure  of  her  business  just  at  that  moment  than 
Olive  Chancellor;  it  was  as  if  he  could  see,  through 
the  door,  the  terrible  way  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Verena 
while  she  held  her  watch  in  her  hand  and  Verena  looked 
away  from  her.  Olive  would  have  been  so  'thankful 
that  she  should  begin  before  the  hour,  but  of  course  that 
was  impossible.  Ransom  asked  no  questions — that  seemed 
a  waste  of  time ;  he  only  said,  after  a  minute,  to  the 
policeman : 


XLI.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  433 

1 1  should  like  very  much  to  see  Miss  Tarrant,  if  you 
will  be  so  good  as  to  take  in  my  card.' 

The  guardian  of  order,  well  planted  just  between  him 
and  the  handle  of  the  door,  took  from  Ransom  the  morsel 
of  pasteboard  which  he  held  out  to  him,  read  slowly  the 
name  inscribed  on  it,  turned  it  over  and  looked  at  the 
back,  then  returned  it  to  his  interlocutor.  '  Well,  I  guess 
it  ain't  much  use/  he  remarked. 

'  How  can  you  know  that  ?  You  have  no  business  to 
decline  my  request.' 

'  Well,  I  guess  I  have  about  as  much  business  as  you 
have  to  make  it.'  Then  he  added,  'You  are  just  the  very 
man  she  wants  to  keep  out.' 

'I  don't  think  Miss  Tarrant  wants  to  keep  me  out,' 
Ransom  returned. 

' 1  don't  know  much  about  her,  she  hasn't  hired  the  hall. 
It's  the  other  one — Miss  Chancellor ;  it's  her  that  runs  this 
lecture.' 

'  And  she  has  asked  you  to  keep  me  out  ?  How  absurd !' 
exclaimed  Ransom,  ingeniously. 

1  She  tells  me  you're  none  too  fit  to  be  round  alone ; 
you  have  got  this  thing  on  the  brain.  I  guess  you'd  better 
be  quiet,'  said  the  policeman. 

'  Quiet  ?     Is  it  possible  to  be  more  quiet  than  I  am  ?' 

'  Well,  I've  seen  crazy  folks  that  were  a  good  deal  like 
you.  If  you  want  to  see  the  speaker  why  don't  you  go  and 
set  round  in  the  hall,  with  the  rest  of  the  public?'  And 
the  policeman  waited,  in  an  immovable,  ruminating,  reason- 
able manner,  for  an  answer  to  this  inquiry. 

Ransom  had  one,  on  the  instant,  at  his  service.  '  Because 
I  don't  want  simply  to  see  her ;  I  want  also  to  speak  to  her 
— in  private.' 

'Yes — it's  always  intensely  private,'  said  the  policeman. 
'  Now  I  wouldn't  lose  the  lecture  if  I  was  you.  I  guess  it 
will  do  you  good.' 

'The  lecture?'  Ransom  repeated,  laughing.  'It  won't 
take  place.' 

'  Yes  it  will — as  quick  as  the  organ  stops.'  Then  the 
policeman  added,  as  to  himself,  '  Why  the  devil  don't 
it?' 

2  F 


434  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

*  Because  Miss  Tarrant  has  sent  up  to  the  organist  to 
tell  him  to  keep  on.' 

'Who  has  she  sent,  do  you  s'pose?'  And-  Ransom's 
new  acquaintance  entered  into  his  humour.  '  I  guess  Miss 
Chancellor  isn't  her  nigger.' 

1  She  has  sent  her  father,  or  perhaps  even  her  mother. 
They  are  in  there  too.' 

'  How  do  you  know  that  ?'  asked  the  policeman,  con- 
sideringly. 

'  Oh,  I  know  everything,'  Ransom  answered,  smiling. 

'Well,  I  guess  they  didn't  come  here  to  listen  to  that 
organ.  We'll  hear  something  else  before  long,  if  he  doesn't 
stop.' 

'  You  will  hear  a  good  deal,  very  soon,'  Ransom 
remarked. 

The  serenity  of  his  self-confidence  appeared  at  last  to 
make  an  impression  on  his  antagonist,  who  lowered  his 
head  a  little,  like  some  butting  animal,  and  looked  at  the 
young  man  from  beneath  bushy  eyebrows.  'Well,  I  have 
heard  a  good  deal,  since  I've  ben  in  Boston.' 

4  Oh,  Boston's  a  great  place,'  Ransom  rejoined,  inatten- 
tively. He  was  not  listening  to  the  policeman  or  to  the 
organ  now,  for  the  sound  of  voices  had  reached  him  from 
the  other  side  of  the  door.  The  policeman  took  no  further 
notice  of  it  than  to  lean  back  against  the  panels,  with  folded 
arms ;  and  there  was  another  pause,  between  them,  during 
which  the  playing  of  the  organ  ceased. 

'  I  will  just  wait  here,  with  your  permission,'  said  Ran- 
som, '  and  presently  I  shall  be  called.' 

'Who  do  you  s'pose  will  call  you?' 

'Well,  Miss  Tarrant,  I  hope.' 

'  She'll  have  to  square  the  other  one  first.' 

Ransom  took  out  his  watch,  which  he  had  adapted,  on 
purpose,  several  hours  before,  to  Boston  time,  and  saw  that 
the  minutes  had  sped  with  increasing  velocity  during  this 
interview,  and  that  it  now  marked  five  minutes  past  eight. 
'  Miss  Chancellor  will  have  to  square  the  public,'  he  said  in 
a  moment ;  and  the  words  were  far  from  being  an  empty 
profession  of  security,  for  the  conviction  already  in  posses- 
sion of  him.  that  a  drama  in  which  he,  though  cut  off,  was 


XLI.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  435 

an  actor,  had  been  going  on  for  some  time  in  the  apart- 
ment he  was  prevented  from  entering,  that  the  situation  was 
extraordinarily  strained  there,  and  that  it  could  not  come  to 
an  end  without  an  appeal  to  him — this  transcendental 
assumption  acquired  an  infinitely  greater  force  the  instant 
he  perceived  that  Verena  was  even  now  keeping  her  audi- 
ence waiting.  Why  didn't  she  go  on  ?  Why,  except  that 
she  knew  he  was  there,  and  was  gaining  time  ? 

'Well,  I  guess  she  has  shown  herself,'  said  the  door- 
keeper, whose  discussion  with  Ransom  now  appeared  to 
have  passed,  on  his  own  part,  and  without  the  slightest 
prejudice  to  his  firmness,  into  a  sociable,  gossiping  phase. 

'  If  she  had  shown  herself,  we  should  hear  the  reception, 
the  applause.' 

*  Well,  there  they  air ;  they  are  going  to  give  it  to  her,' 
the  policeman  announced. 

He  had  an  odious  appearance  of  being  in  the  right,  for 
there  indeed  they  seemed  to  be — they  were  giving  it  to  her. 
A  general  hubbub  rose  from  the  floor  and  the  galleries  of 
the  hall — the  sound  of  several  thousand  people  stamping 
with  their  feet  and  rapping  with  their  umbrellas  and  sticks. 
Ransom  felt  faint,  and  for  a  little  while  he  stood  with  his 
gaze  interlocked  with  that  of  the  policeman.  Then  sud- 
denly a  wave  of  coolness  seemed  to  break  over  him,  and  he 
exclaimed :  '  My  dear  fellow,  that  isn't  applause  —  it's 
impatience.  It  isn't  a  reception,  it's  a  call  1' 

The  policeman  neither  assented  to  this  proposition  nor 
denied  it;  he  only  transferred  the  protuberance  in  his 
cheek  to  the  other  side,  and  observed : 

'  I  guess  she's  sick.' 

'Oh,  I  hope  not!'  said  Ransom,  very  gently.  The 
stamping  and  rapping  swelled  and  swelled  for  a  minute, 
and  then  it  subsided ;  but  before  it  had  done  so  Ransom's 
definition  of  it  had  plainly  become  the  true  one.  The  tone 
of  the  manifestation  was  good-humoured,  but  it  was  not 
gratulatory.  He  looked  at  his  watch  again,  and  saw  that 
five  minutes  more  had  elapsed,  and  he  remembered  what 
the  newspaper-man  in  Charles  Street  had  said  about  Olive's 
guaranteeing  Verena's  punctuality.  Oddly  enough,  at  the 
moment  the  image  of  this  gentleman  recurred  to  him,  the 


436  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

gentleman  himself  burst  through  the  other  door,  in  a  state 
of  the  liveliest  agitation. 

1  Why  in  the  name  of  goodness  don't  she  go  on  ?  If  she 
wants  to  make  them  call  her,  they've  done  it  about  enough ! ' 
Mr.  Pardon  turned,  pressingly,  from  Ransom  to  the  police- 
man and  back  again,  and  in  his  preoccupation  gave  no  sign 
of  having  met  the  Mississippian  before. 

*  I  guess  she's  sick,'  said  the  policeman. 

•'  The  public  '11  be  sick ! '  cried  the  distressed  reporter. 
1  If  she's  sick,  why  doesn't  she  send  for  a  doctor  ?  All 
Boston  is  packed  into  this  house,  and  she  has  got  to  talk 
to  it.  I  want  to  go  in  and  see.' 

'  You  can't  go  in,'  said  the  policeman,  drily. 

'  Why  can't  I  go  in,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  I  want  to 
go  in  for  the  "Vesper"!' 

4  You  can't  go  in  for  anything.     I'm  keeping  this  man 
out,  too,'  the  policeman  added  genially,  as  if  to  make  Mr. 
Pardon's  exclusion  appear  less  invidious. 
.    '  Why,  they'd  ought  to  let  you  in,'  said  Matthias,  staring 
a  moment  at  Ransom. 

*  May  be  they'd  ought,  but  they  won't,'  the  policeman 
remarked. 

4  Gracious  me  ! '  panted  Mr.  Pardon ;  '  I  knew  from  the 
first  Miss  Chancellor  would  make  a  mess  of  it !  Where's 
Mr.  Filer?'  he  went  on,  eagerly,  addressing  himself  ap- 
parently to  either  of  the  others,  or  to  both. 

'  I  guess  he's  at  the  door,  counting  the  money,'  said  the 
policeman. 

'Well,  he'll  have  to  give  it  back  if  he  don't  look 
out!' 

4  Maybe  he  will.  I'll  let  him  in  if  he  comes,  but  he's 
the  only  one.  She  is  on  now,'  the  policeman  added,  with- 
out emotion. 

His  ear  had  caught  the  first  faint  murmur  of  another 
explosion  of  sound.  This  time,  unmistakably,  it  was 
applause — the  clapping  of  multitudinous  hands,  mingled 
with  the  noise  of  many  throats.  The  demonstration,  how- 
ever, though  considerable,  was  not  what  might  have  been 
expected,  and  it  died  away  quickly.  Mr.  Pardon  stood 
listening,  with  an  expression  of  some  alarm.  'Merciful 


XLI.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  437 

fathers!  can't  they  give  her  more  than  that?'  he  cried. 
'  I'll  just  fly  round  and  see  !' 

When  he  had  hurried  away  again,  Ransom  said  to  the 
policeman — 'Who  is  Mr.  Filer?' 

*  Oh,  he's  an  old  friend  of  mine.  He's  the  man  that 
runs  Miss  Chancellor.' 

'That  runs  her?' 

'  Just  the  same  as  she  runs  Miss  Tarrant.  He  runs  the 
pair,  as  you  might  say.  He's  in  the  lecture-business.' 

'Then  he  had  better  talk  to  the  public  himself.' 

1  Oh,  he  can't  talk ;  he  can  only  boss ! ' 

The  opposite  door  at  this  moment  was  pushed  open 
again,  and  a  large,  heated-looking  man,  with  a  little  stiff 
beard  on  the  end  of  his  chin  and  his  overcoat  flying  behind 

him,  strode  forward  with  an  imprecation.  '  What  the  h 

are  they  doing  in  the  parlour?  This  sort  of  thing's  about 
played  out ! ' 

'Ain't  she  up  there  now?'  the  policeman  asked. 

'  It's  not  Miss  Tarrant,'  Ransom  said,  as  if  he  knew  all 
about  it.  He  perceived  in  a  moment  that  this  was  Mr. 
Filer,  Olive  Chancellor's  agent;  an  inference  instantly 
followed  by  the  reflection  that  such  a  personage  would 
have  been  warned  against  him  by  his  kinswoman  and 
would  doubtless  attempt  to  hold  him,  or  his  influence, 
accountable  for  Verena's  unexpected  delay.  Mr.  Filer 
only  glanced  at  him,  however,  and  to  Ransom's  surprise 
appeared  to  have  no  theory  of  his  identity ;  a  fact  implying 
that  Miss  Chancellor  had  considered  that  the  greater  dis- 
cretion was  (except  to  the  policeman)  to  hold  her  tongue 
about  him  altogether. 

'  Up  there  ?  It's  her  jackass  of  a  father  that's  up  there  ! ' 
cried  Mr.  Filer,  with  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door, 
which  the  policeman  had  allowed  him  to  approach. 

'Is  he  asking  for  a  doctor?'  the  latter  inquired,  dis- 
passionately. 

'You're  the  sort  of  doctor  he'll  want,  if  he  doesn't 
produce  the  girl !  You  don't  mean  to  say  they've  locked 
themselves  in  ?  What  the  plague  are  they  after  ?' 

'They've  got  the  key  on  that  side,'  said  the  police- 
man, while  Mr.  Filer  discharged  at  the  door  a  volley  of 


438  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLI. 

sharp  knocks,  at  the  same  time  violently  shaking  the 
handle. 

'If  the  door  was  locked,  what  was  the  good  of  your 
standing  before  it?'  Ransom  inquired. 

'  So  as  you  couldn't  do  that;'  and  the  policeman  nodded 
at  Mr.  Filer. 

1  You  see  your  interference  has  done  very  little  good.' 

'  I  dunno ;  she  has  got  to  come  out  yet/ 

Mr.  Filer  meanwhile  had  continued  to  thump  and  shake, 
demanding  instant  admission  and  inquiring  if  they  were 
going  to  let  the  audience  pull  the  house  down.  Another 
round  of  applause  had  broken  out,  directed  perceptibly 
to  some  apology,  some  solemn  circumlocution,  of  Selah 
Tarrant's ;  this  covered  the  sound  of  the  agent's  voice,  as 
well  as  that  of  a  confused  and  divided  response,  proceeding 
from  the  parlour.  For  a  minute  nothing  definite  was 
audible;  the  door  remained  closed,  and  Matthias  Pardon 
reappeared  in  the  vestibule. 

'He  says  she's  just  a  little  faint — from  nervousness. 
She'll  be  all  ready  in  about  three  minutes.'  This  announce- 
ment was  Mr.  Pardon's  contribution  to  the  crisis ;  and  he 
added  that  the  crowd  was  a  lovely  crowd,  it  was  a  real 
Boston  crowd,  it  was  perfectly  good-humoured. 

'  There's  a  lovely  crowd,  and  a  real  Boston  one  too,  I 
guess,  in  here !'  cried  Mr.  Filer,  now  banging  very  hard. 
'I've  handled  prima  donnas,  and  I've  handled  natural 
curiosities,  but  I've  never  seen  anything  up  to  this.  Mind 
what  I  say,  ladies ;  if  you  don't  let  me  in,  I'll  smash  down 
the  door!' 

'  Don't  seem  as  if  you  could  make  it  much  worse,  does 
it?'  the  policeman  observed  to  Ransom,  strolling  aside  a 
little,  with  the  air  of  being  superseded. 


XLII. 

RANSOM  made  no  reply ;  he  was  watching  the  door,  which 
at  that  moment  gave  way  from  within.  Verena  stood  there 
— it  was  she,  evidently,  who  had  opened  it — and  her  eyes 
went  straight  to  his.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  her 
face  was  whiter  than  her  garment ;  above  it  her  hair  seemed 
to  shine  like  fire.  She  took  a  step  forward ;  but  before  she 
could  take  another  he  had  come  down  to  her,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  room.  Her  face  was  full  of  suffering,  and 
he  did  not  attempt — before  all  those  eyes — to  take  her 
hand ;  he  only  said  in  a  low  tone,  '  I  have  been  waiting  for 
you — a  long  time  !' 

'  I  know  it — I  saw  you  in  your  seat— I  want  to  speak  to 
you.' 

'  Well,  Miss  Tarrant,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  be  on 
the  platform  ?'  cried  Mr.  Filer,  making  with  both  his  arms 
a  movement  as  if  to  sweep  her  before  him,  through  the 
waiting-room,  up  into  the  presence  of  the  public. 

'  In  a  moment  I  shall  be  ready.  My  father  is  making 
that  all  right.'  And,  to  Ransom's  surprise,  she  smiled,  with- 
all  her  sweetness,  at  the  irrepressible  agent ;  appeared  to 
wish  genuinely  to  reassure  him. 

The  three  had  moved  together  into  the  waiting-room, 
and  there  at  the  farther  end  of  it,  beyond  the  vulgar,  per- 
functory chairs  and  tables,  under  the  flaring  gas,  he  saw 
Mrs.  Tarrant  sitting  upright  on  a  sofa,  with  immense  rigidity, 
and  a  large  flushed  visage,  full  of  suppressed  distortion,  and 
beside  her  prostrate,  fallen  over,  her  head  buried  in  the  lap 
of  Verena's  mother,  the  tragic  figure  of  Olive  Chancellor. 
Ransom  could  scarcely  know  how  much  Olive's  having 
flung  herself  upon  Mrs.  Tarrant's  bosom  testified  to  the 
convulsive  scene  that  had  just  taken  place  behind  the 


440  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLII. 

locked  door.  He  closed  it  again,  sharply,  in  the  face  of 
the  reporter  and  the  policeman,  and  at  the  same  moment 
Selah  Tarrant  descended,  through  the  aperture  leading  to 
the  platform,  from  his  brief  communion  with  the  public. 
On  seeing  Ransom  he  stopped  short,  and,  gathering  his 
waterproof  about  him,  measured  the  young  man  from  head 
to  foot. 

'Well,  sir,  perhaps^//  would  like  to  go  and  explain  our 
hitch,'  he  remarked,  indulging  in  a  smile  so  comprehensive 
that  the  corners  of  his  mouth  seemed  almost  to  meet  be- 
hind. '  I  presume  that  you,  better  than  any  one  else,  can 
give  them  an  insight  into  our  difficulties ! ' 

'  Father,  be  still ;  father,  it  will  come  out  all  right  in  a 
moment ! '  cried  Verena,  below  her  breath,  panting  like  an 
emergent  diver. 

*  There's  one  thing  I  want  to  know :  are  we  going  to 
spend  half  an  hour  talking  over'  our  domestic  affairs  ? '  Mr. 
Filer  demanded,  wiping  his  indignant  countenance.  '  Is 
Miss  Tarrant  going  to  lecture,*or  ain't  she  going  to  lecture? 
If  she  ain't,  she'll  please  to  show  cause  why.  Is  she  aware 
that  every  quarter  of  a  second,  at  the  present  instant,  is 
worth  about  five  hundred  dollars  ?' 

'I  know  that — I  know  that,  Mr.  Filer;  I  will  begin  in  a 
moment ! '  Verena  went  on.  '  I  only  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Ransom — just  three  words.  They  are  perfectly  quiet — 
don't  you  see  how  quiet  they  are  ?  They  trust  me,  they 
trust  me,  don't  they,  father?  I  only  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Ransom.' 

'Who  the  devil  is  Mr.  Ransom?'  cried  the  exasperated, 
bewildered  Filer. 

Verena  spoke  to  the  others,  but  she  looked  at  her  lover, 
and  the  expression  of  her  eyes  was  ineffably  touching  and 
beseeching.  She  trembled  with  nervous  passion,  there  were 
sobs  and  supplications  in  her  voice,  and  Ransom  felt  himself 
flushing  with  pure  pity  for  her  pain — her  inevitable  agony. 
But  at  the  same  moment  he  had  another  perception,  which 
brushed  aside  remorse ;  he  saw  that  he  could  do  what  he 
wanted,  that  she  begged  him,  with  all  her  being,  to  spare 
her,  but  that  so  long  as  he  should  protest  she  was  submis- 
sive, helpless.  What  he  wanted,  in  this  light,  flamed  before 


XLII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  441 

him  and  challenged  all  his  manhood,  tossing  his  determina- 
tion to  a  height  from  which  not  only  Doctor  Tarrant,  and 
Mr.  Filer,  and  Olive,  over  there,  in  her  sightless,  soundless 
shame,  but  the  great  expectant  hall  as  well,  and  the  mighty 
multitude,  in  suspense,  keeping  quiet  from  minute  to  minute 
and  holding  the  breath  of  its  anger — from  which  all  these 
things  looked  small,  surmountable,  and  of  the  moment  only. 
He  didn't  quite  understand,  as  yet,  however ;  he  saw  that 
Verena  had  not  refused,  but  temporised,  that  the  spell  upon 
her — thanks  to  which  he  should  still  be  able  to  rescue  her 
— had  been  the  knowledge  that  he  was  near. 

1  Come  away,  come  away,'  he  murmured,  quickly,  putting 
out  his  two  hands  to  her. 

She  took  one  of  them,  as  if  to  plead,  not  to  consent. 
'  Oh,  let  me  off,  let  me  off — for  her^  for  the  others !  It's  too 
terrible,  it's  impossible !' 

'  What  I  want  to  know  is  why  Mr.  Ransom  isn't  in  the 
hands  of  the  police  !'  wailed  Mrs.  Tarrant,  from  her  sofa. 

'I  have  been,  madam,  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour.' 
Ransom  felt  more  and  more  that  he  could  manage  it,  if  he 
only  kept  cool.  He  bent  over  Verena  with  a  tenderness 
in  which  he  was  careless,  now,  of  observation.  '  Dearest, 
I  told  you,  I  warned  you.  I  left  you  alone  for  ten  weeks ; 
but  could  that  make  you  doubt  it  was  coming?  Not  for 
worlds,  not  for  millions,  shall  you  give  yourself  to  that 
roaring  crowd.  Don't  ask  me  to  care  for  them,  or  for  any 
one  !  What  do  they  care  for  you  but  to  gape  and  grin 
and  babble?  You  are  mine,  you  are  not  theirs.' 

*  What  under  the  sun  is  the  man  talking  about  ?  With 
the  most  magnificent  audience  ever  brought  together  !  The 
city  of  Boston  is  under  this  roof!'  Mr.  Filer  gaspingly 
interposed. 

'The  city  of  Boston  be  damned  !'  said  Ransom. 

'  Mr.  Ransom,  is  very  much  interested  in  my  daughter. 
He  doesn't  approve  of  our  views,'  Selah  Tarrant  explained. 

'It's  the  most  horrible,  wicked,  immoral  selfishness  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life  !'  roared  Mrs.  Tarrant. 

'  Selfishness  !  Mrs.  Tarrant,  do  you  suppose  I  pretend 
not  to  be  selfish  ?' 

'  Do  you  want  us  all  murdered  by  the  mob,  then  ?' 


442  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLII. 

1  They  can  have  their  money — can't  you  give  them  back 
their  money?'  cried  Verena,  turning  frantically  round  the 
circle. 

'  Verena  Tarrant,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going 
to  back  down?'  her  mother  shrieked. 

'Good  God !  that  I  should  make  her  suffer  like  this  !' 
said  Ransom  to  himself;  and  to  put  an  end  to  the  odious 
scene  he  would  have  seized  Verena  in  his  arms  and  broken 
away  into  the  outer  world,  if  Olive,  who  at  Mrs.  Tarrant's 
last  loud  challenge  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  had  not  at  the 
same  time  thrown  herself  between  them  with  a  force  which 
made  the  girl  relinquish  her  grasp  of  Ransom's  hand.  To 
his  astonishment,  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him  out  of  her 
scared,  haggard  face  were,  like  Verena's,  eyes  of  tremendous 
entreaty.  There  was  a  moment  during  which  she  would 
have  been  ready  to  go  down  on  her  knees  to  him,  in  order 
that  the  lecture  should  go  on. 

'If  you  don't  agree  with  her,  take  her  up  on  the  plat- 
form, and  have  it  out  there;  the  public  would  like  that, 
first-rate !'  Mr.  Filer  said  to  Ransom,  as  if  he  thought  this 
suggestion  practical. 

'  She  had  prepared  a  lovely  address  ! '  Selah  remarked, 
mournfully,  as  if  to  the  company  in  general. 

No  one  appeared  to  heed  the  observation,  but  his  wife 
broke  out  again.  'Verena  Tarrant,  I  should  like  to  slap 
you  !  Do  you  call  such  a  man  as  that  a  gentleman  ?  I 
don't  know  where  your  father's  spirit  is,  to.  let  him  stay !' 

Olive,  meanwhile,  was  literally  praying  to  her  kinsman. 
*  Let  her  appear  this  once,  just  this  once  :  not  to  ruin,  not 
to  shame !  Haven't  you  any  pity ;  do  you  want  me  to  be 
hooted?  It's  only  for  an  hour.  Haven't  you  any  soul?' 

Her  face  and  voice  were  terrible  to  Ransom ;  she  had 
flung  herself  upon  Verena  and  was  holding  her  close,  and 
he  could  see  that  her  friend's  suffering  was  faint  in  com- 
parison to  her  own.  c  Why  for  an  hour,  when  it's  all  false 
and  damnable  ?  An  hour  is  as  bad  as  ten  years !  She's 
mine  or  she  isn't,  and  if  she's  mine,  she's  all  mine  ! ' 

'  Yours  !  Yours  !  Verena,  think,  think  what  you're 
doing !'  Olive  moaned,  bending  over  her. 

Mr.  Filer  was  now  pouring  forth  his  nature  in  objurga- 


XLII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  443 

tions  and  oaths,  and  brandishing  before  the  culprits — 
Verena  and  Ransom — the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law 
Mrs.  Tarrant  had  burst  into  violent  hysterics,  while  Selah 
revolved  vaguely  about  the  room  and  declared  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  better  day  was  going  to  be  put  off  for 
quite  a  while.  '  Don't  you  see  how  good,  how  sweet  they 
are — giving  us  all  this  time  ?  Don't  you  think  that  when 
they  behave  like  that — without  a  sound,  for  five  minutes — 
they  ought  to  be  rewarded?'  Verena  asked,  smiling 
divinely,  at  Ransom.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
tender,  more  exquisite,  than  the  way  she  put  her  appeal 
upon  the  ground  of  simple  charity,  kindness  to  the  great 
good-natured,  childish  public. 

'  Miss  Chancellor  may  reward  them  in  any  way  she  likes. 
Give  them  back  their  money  and  a  little  present  to  each.' 

'  Money  and  presents  ?  I  should  like  to  shoot  you,  sir !' 
yelled  Mr.  Filer.  The  audience  had  really  been  very 
patient,  and  up  to  this  point  deserved  Verena's  praise ;  but 
it  was  now  long  past  eight  o'clock,  and  symptoms  of  irrita- 
tion-;—cries  and  groans  and  hisses — began  again  to  proceed 
from  the  hall.  Mr.  Filer  launched  himself  into  the  passage 
leading  to  the  stage,  and  Selah  rushed  after  him.  Mrs. 
Tarrant  extended  herself,  sobbing,  on  the  sofa,  and  Olive, 
quivering  in  the  storm,  inquired  of  Ransom  what  he  wanted 
her  to  do,  what  humiliation,  what  degradation,  what  sacri- 
fice he  imposed. 

'I'll  do  anything— I'll  be  abject— I'll  be  vile— I'll  go 
down  in  the  dust !' 

*  I  ask  nothing  of  you,  and  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you,'  Ransom  said.  '  That  is,  I  ask,  at  the  most,  that  you 
shouldn't  expect  that,  wishing  to  make  Verena  my  wife,  I 
should  say  to  her,  "  Oh  yes,  you  can  take  an  hour  or  two 
out  of  it ! "  Verena,'  he  went  on,  '  all  this  is  out  of  it — 
dreadfully,  odiously — and  it's  a  great  deal  too  much ! 
Come,  come  as  far  away  from  here  as  possible,  and  we'll 
settle  the  rest !' 

The  combined  effort  of  Mr.  Filer  and  Selah  Tarrant  to 
pacify  the  public  had  not,  apparently,  the  success  it 
deserved ;  the  house  continued  in  uproar  and  the  volume 
of  sound  increased.  '  Leave  us  alone,  leave  us  alone  for  a 


444  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLII. 

single  minute!'  cried  Verena;  'just  let  me  speak  to  him, 
and  it  will  be  all  right ! '  She  rushed  over  to  her  mother, 
drew  her,  dragged  her  from  the  sofa,  led  her  to  the  door  of 
the  room.  Mrs.  Tarrant,  on  the  way,  reunited  herself  with 
Olive  (the  horror  of  the  situation  had  at  least  that  com- 
pensation for  her),  and,  clinging  and  staggering  together, 
the  distracted  women,  pushed  by  Verena,  passed  into  the 
vestibule,  now,  as  Ransom  saw,  deserted  by  the  policeman 
and  the  reporter,  who  had  rushed  round  to  where  the  battle 
was  thickest. 

'Oh,  why  did  you  come — why,  why?'  And  Verena, 
turning  back,  threw  herself  upon  him  with  a  protest  which 
was  all,  and  more  than  all,  a  surrender.  She  had  never  yet 
given  herself  to  him  so  much  as  in  that  movement  of 
reproach. 

'  Didn't  you  expect  me,  and  weren't  you  sure  ?'  he  asked, 
smiling  at  her  and  standing  there  till  she  arrived. 

*  I  didn't  know — it  was  terrible — it's  awful !  I  saw  you 
in  your  place,  in  the  house,  when  you  came.  As  soon  as 
we  got  here  I  went  out  to  those  steps  that  go  up  to  the 
stage  and  I  looked  out,  with  my  father — from  behind  him 
— and  saw  you  in  a  minute.  Then  I  felt  too  nervous  to 
speak  !  I  could  never,  never,  if  you  were  there  !  My  father 
didn't  know  you,  and  I  said  nothing,  but  Olive  guessed  as 
soon  as  I  came  back.  She  rushed  at  me,  and  she  looked 
at  me — oh,  how  she  looked  !  and  she  guessed.  She  didn't 
need  to  go  out  to  see  for  herself,  and  when  she  saw  how  I 
was  trembling  she  began  to  tremble  herself,  to  believe,  as  I 
believed,  we  were  lost.  Listen  to  them,  listen  to  them,  in 
the  house  !  Now  I  want  you  to  go  away — I  will  see  you 
to-morrow,  as  long  as  you  wish.  That's  all  I  want  now ;  if 
you  will  only  go  away  it's  not  too  late,  and  everything  will 
be  all  right !' 

Preoccupied  as  Ransom  was  with  the  simple  purpose  of 
getting  her  bodily  out  of  the  place,  he  could  yet  notice  her 
strange,  touching  tone,  and  her  air  of  believing  that  she 
might  really  persuade  him.  She  had  evidently  given  up 
everything  now — every  pretence  of  a  different  conviction 
and  of  loyalty  to  her  cause ;  all  this  had  fallen  from  her  as 
soon  as  she  felt  him  near,  and  she  asked  him  to  go  away 


XLII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  445 

just  as  any  plighted  maiden  might  have  asked  any  favour  of 
her  lover.  But  it  was  the  poor  girl's  misfortune  that,  what- 
ever she  did  or  said,  or  left  unsaid,  only  had  the  effect  of 
making  her  dearer  to  him  and  making  the  people  who  were 
clamouring  for  her  seem  more  and  more  a  raving  rabble. 

He  indulged  not  in  the  smallest  recognition  of  her 
request,  and  simply  said,  '  Surely  Olive  must  have  believed, 
must  have  known,  I  would  come.' 

'She  would  have  been  sure  if  you  hadn't  become  so 
unexpectedly  quiet  after  I  left  Marmion.  You  seemed  to 
concur,  to  be  willing  to  wait' 

*  So  I  was,  for  a  few  weeks.     But  they  ended  yesterday. 
I  was  furious  that  morning,  when  I  learned  your  flight,  and 
during  the  week  that  followed  I  made  two  or  three  attempts 
to  find  you.     Then  I  stopped — I  thought  it  better.     I  saw 
you  were  very  well  hidden  ;  I  determined  not  even  to  write. 
I  felt  I  could  wait — with  that  last  day  at  Marmion  to  think 
of.     Besides,  to  leave  you  with  her  awhile,  for  the  last, 
seemed  more  decent.     Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  now  where 
you  were.' 

*  I  was  with  father  and  mother.     She  sent  me  to  them 
that  morning,  with  a  letter.     I  don't  know  what  was  in  it. 
Perhaps  there  was  money,'  said  Verena,  who  evidently  now 
would  tell  him  everything. 

'And  where  did  they  take  you?' 

'  I  don't  know — to  places.  I  was  in  Boston  once,  for  a 
day ;  but  only  in  a  carriage.  They  were  as  frightened  as 
Olive;  they  were  bound  to  save  me  !' 

'  They  shouldn't  have  brought  you  here  to-night  then. 
How  could  you  possibly  doubt  of  my  coming?' 

'  I  don't  know  what  I  thought,  and  I  didn't  know,  till  I 
saw  you,  that  all  the  strength  I  had  hoped  for  would  leave 
me  in  a  flash,  and  that  if  I  attempted  to  speak — with  you 
sitting  there — I  should  make  the  most  shameful  failure. 
We  had  a  sickening  scene  here — I  begged  for  delay,  for 
time  to  recover.  We  waited  and  waited,  and  when  I  heard 
you  at  the  door  talking  to  the  policeman,  it  seemed  to  me 
everything  was  gone.  But  it  will  still  come  back,  if  you 
will  leave  me.  They  are  quiet  again — father  must  be 
interesting  them/ 


446  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLII. 

'I  hope  he  is  1'  Ransom  exclaimed.  'If  Miss  Chan- 
cellor ordered  the  policeman,  she  must  have  expected  me.' 

1  That  was  only  after  she  knew  you  were  in  the  house. 
She  flew  out  into  the  lobby  with  father,  and  they  seized  him 
and  posted  him  there.  She  locked  the  door ;  she  seemed 
to  think  they  would  break  it  down.  I  didn't  wait  for  that, 
but  from  the  moment  I  knew  you  were  on  the  other  side  of 
it  I  couldn't  go  on — I  was  paralysed.  It  has  made  me  feel 
better  to  talk  to  you — and  now  I  could  appear,'  Verena 
added. 

'My  darling  child,  haven't  you  a  shawl  or  a  mantle?' 
Ransom  returned,  for  all  answer,  looking  about  him.  He 
perceived,  tossed  upon  a  chair,  a  long,  furred  cloak,  which 
he  caught  up,  and,  before  she  could  resist,  threw  over  her. 
She  even  let  him  arrange  it  and,  standing  there,  draped  from 
head  to  foot  in  it,  contented  herself  with  saying,  after  a 
moment : 

4  I  don't  understand — where  shall  we  go  ?  Where  will 
you  take  me?' 

4  We  shall  catch  the  night-train  for  New  York,  and  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning  we  shall  be  married.' 

Verena  remained  gazing  at  him,  with  swimming  eyes. 
4  And  what  will  the  people  do  ?  Listen,  listen  !' 

'  Your  father  is  ceasing  to  interest  them.  They'll  howl 
and  thump,  according  to  their  nature.' 

4  Ah,  their  nature's  fine  !'  Verena  pleaded. 

4  Dearest,  that's  one  of  the  fallacies  I  shall  have  to  woo 
you  from.  Hear  them,  the  senseless  brutes  !'  The  storm 
was  now  raging  in  the  hall,  and  it  deepened  to  such  a  point 
that  Verena  turned  to  him  in  a  supreme  appeal 

4 1  could  soothe  them  with  a  word  !' 

4  Keep  your  soothing  words  for  me — you  will  have  need 
of  them  all,  in  our  coming  time,'  Ransom  said,  laughing. 
He  pulled  open  the  door  again,  which  led  into  the  lobby, 
but  he  was  driven  back,  with  Verena,  by  a  furious  onset 
from  Mrs.  Tarrant.  Seeing  her  daughter  fairly  arrayed  for 
departure,  she  hurled  herself  upon  her,  half  in  indignation, 
half  in  a  blind  impulse  to  cling,  and  with  an  outpouring  of 
tears,  reproaches,  prayers,  strange  scraps  of  argument  and 
iterations  of  farewell,  closed  her  about  with  an  embrace 


XLII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  447 

which  was  partly  a  supreme  caress,  partly  the  salutary 
castigation  she  had,  three  minutes  before,  expressed  the 
wish  to  administer,  and  altogether  for  the  moment  a  check 
upon  the  girl's  flight. 

'  Mother,  dearest,  it's  all  for  the  best,  I  can't  help  it,  I 
love  you  just  the  same;  let  me  go,  let  me  go!'  Verena 
stammered,  kissing  her  again,  struggling  to  free  herself,  and 
holding  out  her  hand  to  Ransom.  He  saw  now  that  she 
only  wanted  to  get  away,  to  leave  everything  behind  her. 
Olive  was  close  at  hand,  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and 
as  soon  as  Ransom  looked  at  her  he  became  aware  that  the 
weakness  she  had  just  shown  had  passed  away.  She  had 
straightened  herself  again,  and  she  was  -upright  in  her 
desolation.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  a  thing  to 
remain  with  him  for  ever ;  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  a 
more  vivid  presentment  of  blighted  hope  and  wounded 
pride.  Dry,  desperate,  rigid,  she  yet  wavered  and  seemed 
uncertain ;  her  pale,  glittering  eyes  straining  forward,  as  if 
they  were  looking  for  death.  Ransom  had  a  vision,  even 
at  that  crowded  moment,  that  if  she  could  have  met  it  there 
and  then,  bristling  with  steel  or  lurid  with  fire,  she  would 
have  rushed  on  it  without  a  tremor,  like  the  heroine  that 
she  was.  All  this  while  the  great  agitation  in  the  hall  rose 
and  fell,  in  waves  and  surges,  as  if  Selah  Tarrant  and  the 
agent  were  talking  to  the  multitude,  trying  to  calm  them, 
succeeding  for  the  moment,  and  then  letting  them  loose 
again.  Whirled  down  by  one  of  the  fitful  gusts,  a  lady  and 
a  gentleman  issued  from  the  passage,  and  Ransom,  glancing 
at  them,  recognised  Mrs.  Farrinder  and  her  husband. 

'Well,  Miss  Chancellor,'  said  that  more  successful 
woman,  with  considerable  asperity,  '  if  this  is  the  way  you're 
going  to  reinstate  our  sex!'  She  passed  rapidly  through 
the  room,  followed  by  Amariah,  who  remarked  in  his 
transit  that  it  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  a  want  of 
organisation,  and  the  two  retreated  expeditiously,  without 
the  lady's  having  taken  the  smallest  notice  of  Verena,  whose 
conflict  with  her  mother  prolonged  itself.  Ransom,  striving, 
with  all  needful  consideration  for  Mrs.  Tarrant,  to  separate 
these  two,  addressed  not  a  word  to  Olive ;  it  was  the  last 
of  her,  for  him,  and  he  neither  saw  how  her  livid  face 


448  THE  BOSTONIANS.  XLII. 

suddenly  glowed,  as  if  Mrs.  Farrinder's  words  had  been 
a  lash,  nor  how,  as  if  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  she  rushed 
to  the  approach  to  the  platform.  If  he  had  observed  her, 
it  might  have  seemed  to  him  .that  she  hoped  to  find  the 
fierce  expiation  she  sought  for  in  exposure  to  the  thousands 
she  had  disappointed  and  deceived,  in  offering  herself  to  be 
trampled  to  death  and  torn  to  pieces.  She  might  have 
suggested  to  him  some  feminine  firebrand  of  Paris  revolu- 
tions, erect  on  a  barricade,  or  even  the  sacrificial  figure  of 
Hypatia,  whirled  through  the  furious  mob  of  Alexandria. 
She  was  arrested  an  instant  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Burrage 
and  her  son,  who  had  quitted  the  stage  on  observing  the 
withdrawal  of  the  Farrinders,  and  who  swept  into  the  room 
in  the  manner  of  people  seeking  shelter  from  a  thunder- 
storm. The  mother's  face  expressed  the  well-bred  surprise 
of  a  person  who  should  have  been  asked  out  to  dinner  and 
seen  the  cloth  pulled  off  the  table ;  the  young  man,  who 
supported  her  on  his  arm,  instantly  lost  himself  in  the 
spectacle  of  Verena  disengaging  herself  from  Mrs.  Tarrant, 
only  to  be  again  overwhelmed,  and  in  the  unexpected 
presence  of  the  Mississippian.  His  handsome  blue  eyes 
turned  from  one  to  the  other,  and  he  looked  infinitely 
annoyed  and  bewildered.  It  even  seemed  to  occur  to 
him  that  he  might,  perhaps,  interpose  with  effect,  and  he 
evidently  would  have  liked  to  say  that,  without  really 
bragging,  he  would  at  least  have  kept  the  affair  from 
turning  into  a  row.  But  Verena,  muffled  and  escaping, 
was  deaf  to  him,  and  Ransom  didn't  look  the  right  per- 
son to  address  such  a  remark  as  that  to.  Mrs.  Burrage 
and  Olive,  as  the  latter  shot  past,  exchanged  a  glance  which 
represented  quick  irony  on  one  side  and  indiscriminating 
defiance  on  the  other. 

'  Oh,  are  you  going  to  speak  ?'  the  lady  from  New  York 
inquired,  with  her  cursory  laugh. 

Olive  had  already  disappeared ;  but  Ransom  heard  her 
answer  flung  behind  her  into  the  room.  '  I  am  going  to  be 
hissed  and  hooted  and  insulted  !' 

'Olive,  Olive!'  Verena  suddenly  shrieked;  and  her 
piercing  cry  might  have  reached  the  front.  But  Ransom 
had  already,  by  muscular  force,  wrenched  her  away,  and 


XLII.  THE  BOSTONIANS.  449 

was  hurrying  her  out,  leaving  Mrs.  Tarrant  to  heave  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Burrage,  who,  he  was  sure,, 
would,  within  the  minute,  loom  upon  her  attractively 
through  her  tears,  and  supply  her  with  a  reminiscence, 
destined  to  be  valuable,  of  aristocratic  support  and  clever 
composure.  In  the  outer  labyrinth  hasty  groups,  a  little 
scared,  were  leaving  the  hall,  giving  up  the  game.  Ransom, 
as  he  went,  thrust  the  hood  of  Verena's  long  cloak  over  her 
head,  to  conceal  her  face  and  her  identity.  It  quite  pre- 
vented recognition,  and  as  they  mingled  in  the  issuing 
crowd  he  perceived  the  quick,  complete,  tremendous  silence 
which,  in  the  hall,  had  greeted  Olive  Chancellor's  rush  to 
the  front.  Every  sound  instantly  dropped,  the  hush  was 
respectful,  the  great  public  waited,  and  whatever  she  should 
say  to  them  (and  he  thought  she  might  indeed  be  rather 
embarrassed),  it  was  not  apparent  that  they  were  likely  to 
hurl  the  benches  at  her.  Ransom,  palpitating  with  his 
victory,  felt  now  a  little  sorry  for  her,  and  was  relieved  to 
know  that,  even  when  exasperated,  a  Boston  audience  is 
not  ungenerous.  'Ah,  now  I  am  glad!'  said  Verena, 
when  they  reached  the  street.  But  though  she  was  glad, 
he  presently  discovered  that,  beneath  her  hood,  she  was  in 
tears.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  with  the  union,  so  far  from 
brilliant,  into  which  she  was  about  to  enter,  these  were  not 
the  last  she  was  destined  to  shed. 


THE    END. 


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